Resistance
by Jay Simpson
Summary: This story is a cross-over of the Star Wars universe with the Earth as it stood in 1998. The setting for the Star Wars universe is approximately three years prior to the Battle of Yavin.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations from Star Wars property of Lucasfilm._

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_The initial setting is a US Army unit deployed to the Kuwaiti desert during an "Intrinsic Action" rotation, and the time setting for the Galactic Empire is approximately three years prior to the Battle of Yavin._

**Chapter 1**

First Lieutenant Gregory Yost shifted on his cot. Sleep came to him fleetingly at best, but stifling heat bore into his body, and even the metal supports within the cot burned his skin when he was not careful and allowed himself to come in contact with it. A pool of sweat soaked the t-shirt he wore, causing his arm to stick to his forehead when he slept. Off to Greg's left, a tall fan stood, mocking him in its stillness. The thing had burned out only hours after another man had turned it on. The sides of the GP-medium tent were rolled up, revealing only mosquito netting. The air that wafted in felt as though it came from a hair drier. In frustration, Greg glanced at his watch. He grimaced as he realized it was only shortly after noon, and this wasn't even the hottest part of the day. Yes, he was on night shift, which made the workday bearable, but sleep was a phantom that rarely showed itself in this sweltering heat. The Kuwaiti desert was horribly hot this time of year. Greg reached down to the ground to grab his water bottle and took a swig. The water was hot, but at least it was wet. He closed his eyes in an attempt to will his body to sleep. In the background, a power generator's drone assisted him in his quest, and he reluctantly drifted off.

BEEP-BEEP, BEEP-BEEP, BEEP-BEEP, BEEP- Greg jabbed his hand off to the side, where the small battery-powered alarm clock rested on his foot locker, and he shut off the device. He was very tired, and it was exceedingly unfair that further sleep was now denied him. He slowly peeled himself out of the sweat-soaked cot and sat, staring at the burned out fan across the tent, it seeming to look back at him in its impotence. He tilted his head down to look at his watch. It was 1700. The blazing sun had traversed closer to the horizon, and the heat had subsided. The thousands of flies relished in flight, now that it was cool enough again for them to fly. Several lined the edge of his cot, sucking up the sweat Greg had left for them. Several more were on various parts of Greg, drinking his perspiration. He had long ago stopped batting them away, for that proved futile and only made him hotter. Several other men were getting ready for their shift, some already heading outside either to wash up or eat.

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The food wasn't terrible tonight, and the salad proved almost good. Greg smiled to himself, thinking it was probably pretty difficult to mess up a salad. He knew that the cooks were doing the best they could out here, so he thanked them for the food, as he always did. Greg worked his way toward a picnic bench, where other soldiers from the night shift were busily shoveling food into their mouths. Off to the right of the bench, Greg spotted a HMMWWV with a large dial thermometer hanging from it. He saw that the temperature had dropped to 110 F. The cursed flies were absolutely everywhere. Already, the food on his tray sported about a dozen of them. He sat down next to First Lieutenant Steve Hovey, who was about half-way through his meal.

"What's up, Greg?" queried Steve while chewing on the evening's mystery meat.

"I'm as tired as the day is long, buddy. If I don't start getting more sleep, I'm gonna pass out on shift."

"Nothing happens around here at night anyway, so what's the harm?" replied Steve. Greg thought about that. He was the assistant S2 for the battalion, which defaulted him to night shift. CPT Hugh Anderson was the Battalion S2, and he was also Greg's boss. These "Intrinsic Action" missions were pretty boring when the Kuwaitis decided it was just too hot to play. The days got up to 140 F, so training pretty much came to a standstill from 1000 to 1600 every day. The night shift did little more than monitor the radios and file the usual reports. The battalion commander had authorized a satellite TV for news purposes, but at around 2300 the thing was usually set to Star Movies. Every once in a while, the battalion would conduct night training, and that would alleviate some boredom, but for the most part the nights were dead.

"Yeah, I guess you're right, but with my luck the Old Man would walk in just as I'm nodding off. Oh well, that's why God made coffee."

"And dip," replied Steve, patting the can of Copenhagen in his pocket.

"Yeah, that too, but I'm trying to cut down on that stuff."

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Steve looked at his watch and groaned inwardly. It was only 2335, and the night was crawling. He glanced over at the S3 section. Steve was seated on a folding chair, a radio handset in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He, like most of the folks on night shift, was gazing into the TV. Greg followed Steve's gaze to the screen. Some Indian movie was playing on the Star Movies channel. In the background, Greg could hear the beeps of the SINCGARS radios, followed by droning of tired voices. Those were company command posts (CPs) conducting radio checks or sending in scheduled reports. Greg looked over his status charts. Only C Company had yet to send in their sensitive items report. He grabbed his handset and glanced at the radio.

"Charger X-Ray, this is Deathbringer Two Alpha, over." Greg got no response, so he repeated the transmission. No response.

"Any Charger element, any Charger element, this is Deathbringer Two Alpha, over." No response. Greg looked over at the S3 section of the tactical operations center. Most of the men had their DCU tops off, sporting t-shirts, their eyes still glued to the TV.

"Captain Higgins," said Greg.

"Yeah, BICC, what is it?" said CPT Vince Higgins, annoyed at Greg for forcing his attention away from the second-rate Indian movie. Greg chafed inwardly. He hated being called, "BICC." It was his title as the Assistant S2, standing for "Battlefield Intelligence Coordination Center." He had never understood why his duty position was called a center, but he really didn't like what "BICC" rhymed with.

"Sir, I haven't got a Green 2 report from Charger, and they won't respond on the radio," said Greg.

"Maybe they're asleep."

"Yes sir, that's possible. I was hoping you could try to raise them on the Ops net." CPT Higgins looked at Greg as though he had something growing out of his forehead, but then he motioned to his RTO, Sergeant Jones.

"SGT Jones, see if the Charger CP is awake, would ya?"

"Yes sir." SGT Jones picked up his handset and radioed the CP. After three tries, he got a tired response from someone and told them that the BICC was trying to reach them on the Operations and Intelligence (O&I) net. Greg picked up his handset and called the Charger CP. Once he got the information he needed, he logged it on his tracking chart and in his log. Looking down at his watch, Greg saw that is was only 2350. Sleepiness washed over him like a wave. The coffee wasn't doing its job. Greg stood up and walked over to the S3 section.

"Sir, I got all of my reports in from the companies, so I think I'll take a walk to the latrine," said Greg to CPT Higgins. Higgins looked up at him and nodded, returning his attention to the TV.

Greg walked out into the night, closing the tent flap behind him. The battalion was ensconced inside of a kabal, so light discipline did not exist. Two giant mounds of sand ringed the battalion with two entrances, guarded by the duty company and some hapless Headquarters soldiers. Overall, the kabal was about three miles in diameter. Even so, it was dark outside, and Greg looked up to see countless stars against the blackness. The kabal was about 40 miles north of Kuwait City, so the only light came from within the kabal and any celestial light from the night sky. Greg sighed, as the temperature had dropped to just under 100. He had to be careful, for sand vipers were all around, and the things did not like to be stepped on, often showing their appreciation through a deadly bite. Greg knew all too well the policy for anyone suffering a snake bite. You had to kill the snake and bring its body with you, so you could be flown to Kuwait City where they would produce anti-venom from the snake. Otherwise, you'd probably be dead in short order. Such knowledge caused Greg to walk slowly and cautiously.

The urination poles were located out by the homemade porta-johns, and there were no lights around those, so the place was out in the darkness. Greg didn't carry a flashlight or night vision goggles with him, so his memory guided him toward shadows that he knew to be the right location. When Greg was about ten feet away, he could make out white PVC pipes sticking out of the sand at 45-degree angles, with mosquito screens lashed to the tops of them. The sand around the poles was damp from the relief of others. Greg added to the ground's dampness.

As Greg was walking back to the TOC, he thought he saw flashes in the night sky. Stopping, he looked upward. Stars looked back down at him. He blinked, thinking it was odd that lightning would be in the vicinity. This wasn't storm season in the Kuwaiti desert, and only the most intense dust storms produced lightning, and there was only the smallest stirring of a too-warm breeze. He didn't hear any thunder either. Shrugging, Greg continued his trek. As he entered the TOC, he saw that most were still blankly watching the TV. Greg sat back down in his chair. He heard some curses from the S3 section. The movie playing on the TV was intermittently interrupted with snow and squiggly lines. CPT Higgins called for the soldier from the Signal section.

"What's with the stupid TV, SIGO?" demanded Higgins. "SIGO" was a shortened term for "Signal Officer," which the Specialist facing Higgins was not, but the term "SIGO" stuck to any signal type on shift at the time. SPC Flory told Higgins he didn't know, but he'd check on it. He disappeared through the TOC entrance flaps. Meanwhile, the picture on the TV became more erratic.

"Change to something else. Where's the remote?" said CPT Higgins. Steve walked over to one of the battle desks and grabbed the remote. He switched to a different channel, but the picture showed no signs of improvement. He switched to Star News. The picture was constantly interrupted, but what the newscaster was saying made everyone sit up straighter.

An Arabic man with a slightly British accent was speaking, "…and BBC continues to receive reports of multiple unidentified fighter craft attacking airfields and military bases throughout Europe. According to reports, the aircraft are like nothing they have ever seen. The British government reports they have managed to shoot down only a few of the unidentified fighters, but they have lost many fighter jets in the process." The picture switched to a view of a blue sky over a city. Greg could not make out the city, but in the sky he saw what looked like a light-grey wedge. The camera was trying to zoom in for a closer look. The announcer continued, "Reports are coming in from the United States that they are…. Wait. This just in: We have received reports that Washington D.C. is under heavy attack. No government or organization has claimed respon…" The signal cut out abruptly, and snow replaced the announcer's image. All of the soldiers in the TOC, fully awake now, looked at each other in shock and disbelief.

"This has got to be some kind of joke!" said Steve. He feverishly switched channels, each one revealing only snow.

"Pretty good joke," intoned Greg.

"Hey SIGO!" shouted CPT Higgins. SPC Flory reappeared through the SICUP flaps.

"Sir, I couldn't find anything wrong with the dish. It's aligned where it's supposed to be, and it's getting power. The right lights are on, so we should be getting a clear signal. He glanced over to the snow-filled TV in irritation.

"Did someone take out the satellites?" said Steve. CPT Higgins looked at Steve.

"There's only a couple of nations capable of taking out satellites, and we're one of em," replied Higgins. Besides, who would want to take out an entertainment satellite? A look of concern clouded Higgins' face. "Hey Steve! Go grab me a plugger, would ya?"

"Yes sir," said Steve with a confused look but then headed toward the M577 from which the S3 SICUP was booted. He reappeared with a tan-colored bulky GPS in his hand.

"Give me a fix on our position, Steve." Steve began pressing buttons on the device. The old PLGRs were slow to boot, slow to find satellites, and even slower to figure out where you were at, but they were reliable and sturdy. Five minutes passed and Steve shook his head.

"What's the problem?" inquired CPT Higgins.

"It's just weird, sir. I'm picking up only two satellites. We normally can get six out here."

"Well, whoever those bastards on the news channel were, it looks like they've been picking off our GPS satellites too. But who in the Hell would want to attack us, or have the nuts to do so?" Higgins appeared to go blank for a few seconds and then turned to SGT Jones. "SGT Jones, go wake up the Old Man." Jones looked a bit stricken. Waking up the battalion commander was not a pleasant task, but he headed out of the TOC anyway.

"Steve, I want you to try to reach Brigade Headquarters in Doha on the Spitfire. See if they know what's going on. Don't want the Old Man to come in here only to find out I don't know what the Hell to say." Steve nodded and walked over to the AN/PSC-5 and began speaking into the microphone.

"Greg, see if you can raise the intel weenies at Brigade. Maybe they've got a clue." Greg nodded and turned to his SINCGARS radio. The Brigade O&I net ran off of a retransmission, so he knew he should be able to reach someone there.

"Sir, I get nothing off the Spitfire," said Steve.

"Okay. Pull out the HF and see if Brigade is monitoring that." Steve looked a bit wounded.

"Sir, I don't know where that is, and I don't know how to use it."

"It's a radio, like any other. How hard can it be?" replied CPT Higgins. He looked over to SPC Flory, "Do you know how to work an HF?"

"Yes sir. I'll have it up in a few minutes," said Flory. He turned to his section's M577 and disappeared into it.

"Sir, I've got someone from Brigade S2 on the line," said Greg. CPT Higgins turned to Greg. "They're saying they saw the same thing we did. They're contacting ARCENT-KU to find out more. They said they'll call us back when they find something out."

"Alright, fine. We'll just…"

"The battalion commander!" shouted SGT Rogers, one of Greg's section NCOs. All heads whirled toward the entrance flaps and everyone except the soldiers on the radios stood up. Lieutenant Colonel Harry Bertha rubbed some sleep out of his eyes, but he also bore a level of alertness that came with his years of experience.

"Okay Vince, why am I awake?" rumbled LTC Bertha in a deep but tired voice. He was a tall man with steel-gray hair (what little there was of it) in his mid-forties.

"Sir, we saw reports on Star News of attacks on both Britain and CONUS, and…"

"What?!" LTC Bertha suddenly looked more alert.

"Yes sir," continued CPT Higgins, "We saw footage of strange fighter craft attacking airfields, and the announcer said that Washington D.C. was under heavy attack." LTC Bertha glanced over at the TV, frowning as he was greeted by snow on the screen.

"What's wrong with the TV?" inquired the commander.

"Sir, it went out completely during the newscast. I'm not sure, but we think maybe the satellite transmission was interrupted or something."

"…or something," murmured the commander. CPT Higgins paused and then continued.

"Yes sir. We can't raise Brigade on the Spitfire, our pluggers aren't registering…"

"Pluggers not registering?" interrupted LTC Bertha.

"Yes sir. Lieutenant Hovey said he could pick up only two satellites."

"Only one now, sir" interrupted Steve.

"One?!" replied LTC Bertha and CPT Higgins simultaneously. Steve nodded. LTC Bertha looked back at CPT Higgins.

"Sir, SPC Flory is setting up the HF now, and Lieutenant Yost has managed to raise Brigade S2 through O&I." LTC Bertha turned his attention to Greg.

"What did they say?"

"Sir, they're trying to reach ARCENT-KU to find out more. Right now, they're clueless." replied Greg.

"Okay, stay on it," said LTC Bertha. He turned to CPT Higgins, "If Lieutenant Yost can reach Brigade S2, then you should be able to reach Brigade S3. The retrans isn't picky about which net it's bouncing."

"Yes sir. So far they haven't responded, but we'll continue to try and raise them."

For the next hour, Greg continued to communicate with his brigade counterpart. SPC Flory got the HF radio up, and Battalion S3 gained contact with their counterpart at Brigade. They too had tried to reach ARCENT-KU. At about 0220, Brigade called back Greg on his radio and told them that ARCENT-KU was unable to reach CONUS in any way except HF. No satellite communications of any kind were possible. The reports they got from CONUS were not good.

"Wake up all the company commanders, and wake up the rest of the staff," said LTC Bertha at 0255. CPT Higgins nodded and the RTOs began calling the company CPs. Meanwhile, soldiers headed out to wake up the various sleeping staff officers.

At 0330, all company commanders and primary staff officers were gathered in the TOC, forming a loose crowd around LTC Bertha, who stood by the large map board. A few of the officers looked irritated to be awake at such an hour, while the rest appeared to be a mixture of puzzled and tired. CPT Higgins stepped next to the battalion commander and filled in all of the officers on what he knew, alarm visibly growing and replacing other emotions on their faces as he continued to speak. More than a few obscenities were muttered.

By 0730, all M-577s were packed, tents were put away, and the battalion was ready to move. In the distance, Greg could see the Engineers bulldozing down the sand walls of the kabal in different directions. He would get no sleep today. The night shift usually paid in sleep when the battalion TOC had to jump to a new location. But this was different – it was no training exercise. Brigade had sent orders that the battalion had to strike the kabal and array itself in a battle formation, vehicles spread out. He also heard that 3-78 Infantry had received similar orders. They, along with his own battalion, were the only US forces deployed to Kuwait for this operation. He also heard that the Brigade Headquarters was deploying out of Camp Doha and into the desert. Greg felt some trepidation as he recalled the images on TV the night prior. He was very tired, but he now shared an alertness with his comrades that comes with news that your nation has come under attack. Alertness, fear – and a growing sense of anger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Greg felt the water coursing beneath his skis as he held on to the ski grip, the rope before him stretching out to connect to a bright-red speed boat. Grins were on the faces of those on the boat that were looking back at Greg, and he grinned back. Off to the left, Greg saw a woman sunbathing on a pier, and his smile widened. He motioned to the people on the boat and gestured in the direction of the sunbathing woman. The driver looked over to his right, saw the woman and nodded. The boat began to swing to the right. Greg juked his skis so as to swerve to the right. At just the right moment, Greg banked hard on the skis, cascading a large wall of water onto the bathing woman. He whooped in triumph, and he swiveled his head to watch the woman's reaction. Greg watched as the woman, thoroughly peeved, rose in disgust and swung her menacing gaze toward him. Then he saw what appeared to be concern replacing her anger. She waved at Greg, seeming to warn or wave him off. Puzzled, Greg turned back to the front – just in time to see the giant tin wall of a boathouse. _**SLAM**_**_!_**

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Greg awoke to a deafening thunder. A monstrous explosion rocked the ground beneath him. He was already partially dressed as he was thrown from his cot. Shouts of men around him seemed only slowly to replace the memory of his dream, and in the distance, Greg could hear what sounded like the _WHUMP_ of not-so-distant thunder. They were under attack! But from whom? Were Saddam's troops really that stupid – to attack a heavy US Brigade Combat Team? Then Greg remembered the news from the day before, and he remembered the orders that had driven both battalions deeper into the desert. He had very little time to think about any of that though, because his M577 was already fired up and preparing to move. Forgetting his cot, Greg stumbled over to HQ20.

"What the hell is going on, Sir?!" shouted Greg to his boss as he poked his head into the rear of the track.

"We're being attacked! Now get your butt in here, because we're moving out now!" replied CPT Anderson. Greg stumbled through the hatch, which was quickly closed. The track began rumbling forward. Through the dust inside of the vehicle, Greg could see two legs sticking up through the top hatch. He looked over at his boss. CPT Anderson had two "dog bones" (hand microphones) glued to each ear, his face fixed in concentration. The M2 machine gun on top of the vehicle barked angrily, and Greg could see occasional spent cases fall through the top hatch and bounce about on the track floor. He glanced over at the map that hung by some 550 cord on the wall. No red markings denoted enemy positions – nothing was templated. Whatever was attacking them was not depicted on that map. A hand with a dog bone was shoved at Greg, and he looked up to see CPT Anderson trying to hand off one of the handsets. He took it and pulled out some paper and a pen.

"…is Assassin Six, roger! We've spotted three red-air contacts. Unable to identify type, but two of them are shaped kind of like bowties, break."

"…one in the middle looks a bit different. It's the one dropping ordinance on our positions. We've got…wait, break."

"...My wingman clipped one of the bowtie aircraft with his coax and it appears to be breaking off from the other two."

"…Break, break, break, this is Deathbringer Six. Want all air guards and TCs to target those aircraft now, and dismount those stinger teams. Out!"

"Deathbringer Six, this is Cougar Six! I've lost up to 70 percent of my combat power. Those bastards are pounding us with those bombs and those green beams of theirs. We've taken…" Static replaced the transmission.

"This is Deathbringer Six. Dragon, I want you to engage close…"

"Break, break, break, this is Bandit Six! Have three contacts moving Northeast at Grid November Victor two tree six, fife four one. Appear to have two legs – walking vehicles of some kind, over!"

"Bandit Six, Deathbringer Six, are they close enough to engage with your tanks, over?"

"Negative, the threat victors are out of range. Do you want me to break off a platoon to engage them, over?" The radio went silent for about thirty seconds.

"Negative Bandit Six. Continue your course and engage them only if they come into range. Do the threat victors seem to be closing with you?"

"This is Bandit Six. Negative, they aren't moving as fast as we are, we… break."

"Those threat aircraft have broken off and are moving Southeast." The radio went silent again. Greg could feel his track changing course a few times over the next half hour, so they were not heading in the same direction. He overheard two company commanders warning the battalion commander of Class Three shortages. Those tanks drank JP8 like it was going out of style, and they had lost one of the fuelers to the bowtie aircraft. They had to be going somewhere. He leaned over and shouted a question to CPT Anderson, who replied with a shrug. Well, his boss didn't know where they were going either. They were heading for Iraq. Of that, Greg was fairly certain. But that made no sense, since there were no friends in that direction. Those walking things were coming from the Southeast, from the direction of Kuwait City. Greg knew of no nation, friendly or otherwise, that had walking armored vehicles, so who did the things belong to? Without some Class 3 re-supply, they weren't going to get far.

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Soldiers were moving in all directions, and the darkness was nearly complete, except for the twinkling stars overhead. Most soldiers were wearing night vision devices, and only inside SICUPs and tracks did red light scatter darkness, no red light escaping into the night. Peering upward, Greg now knew that those twinkling points of light held a newly menacing aspect to them. Through local news reports and HF radio, he had learned that the attacks they had been under were not from any traditional enemy but apparently a threat from the stars themselves. Alien invaders! He still chuckled at the absurdity of it but then swallowed. Many good men were now dead on the desert floor, attacked by those bowtie aircraft. From what he and his boss could gather over various radios, a very large invasion force using exotic weapon systems had assaulted nearly every major city on the planet, and resistance, although initially heavy, had died down to what now amounted to insurgency in most areas, including the United States.

Belatedly, the Brigade Commander had ordered strict radio discipline within the BCT. An enemy from the stars certainly had the ability to triangulate and likely intercept their radio transmissions. For all Greg knew, that is how those bowtie craft found them in the first place. They were actually working off of printed SOIs now and using rotating code words and phrases, instead of simply relying on their SINCGARS to scramble their transmissions and frequency-hop. They were also transmitting any FM over low power, when they were transmitting at all. Greg's eyes were heavy, as sleep had been no friend to him over the past few days. The BCT was relatively scattered, and his battalion was spread out fairly thinly. Greg knew that enhanced their force protection, but while he knew that their moving every three hours did too, he didn't have to like it. He was off shift now, so Greg shuffled over to his track. It was backed up to the S3 track. The Fire Support track was next to his, and the signal track was next to the S3 track. All four tracks were backed up to each other with their ramps down, and a couple of ponchos were strung overhead with 550 cord. This was known as the "hot TOC" configuration, because it could be torn down and moved on almost no notice. From inside of the S3 track, Greg could hear a radio. From the tinny sound of it and occasional whining in the background, he figured it was either AM or shortwave. A British voice droned on about events, "…and all citizens are asked to remain calm. The white-clad troopers are here to assist us for a smooth transition to rule by the Empire. You are warned to do whatever they tell you to do and do nothing rash, for they while they want to help, they are well-trained and fully capable of dealing quickly with troublemakers. Her Majesty the Queen spoke today asking all British subjects to comply with…" Greg walked to his own track. It was late, and he was so tired – much too tired to listen to that. As Greg stretched out his foam sleeping pad on top of his track, he thought of home. Was Fort Stewart now occupied by these white-clad troopers? What of Hinesville itself? Were those troopers walking around in Hinesville? His mom and dad lived in Tampa. Was Tampa bombed? Were those troopers there, walking around? Were they shooting at people? Removing them from their homes? Visions of menacing white-clad troopers patrolling the streets of his hometown filled Greg's head as he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

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The day was horribly bright, and the sand reflected that brightness also in the form of heat. Greg could see waves of heat lifting off of the desert floor. To his left he saw movement on the ground. Glancing in that direction, he saw a large tan spider dart beneath a HMMWV, looking for shade. Greg shook his head. Those camel spiders were everywhere. In the distance, Greg saw the shape of a camel, now two of them. He could barely make out human forms perched atop them. Though they were too far away, Greg knew those were most likely Bedouins. Those nomads probably knew nothing of news about invaders from the stars, nor would they likely care if they knew. Their lifestyle had remained pretty constant over thousands of years in this unforgiving desert, and wars had come and gone; civilizations and empires risen and fallen. Still, the Bedouins went about their age-old business. Several officers were now gathered about him, many standing and shading their eyes against the sun, others sitting cross-legged and chattering among themselves. Senior NCOs filtered into the area, most of them congregating together muttering in low voices. Most of the soldiers gathered took occasional swigs from water bottles or canteens. A few munched on parts of MREs. All of them were there to hear what the "Old Man" had to say.

Lieutenant Colonel Harry Bertha strode into the midst of the crowd. Some of the soldiers who had been sitting began to rise, but LTC Bertha motioned them to stay seated saying, "As you were." The crowd, which had been chattering, now grew silent as all eyes swiveled to meet their commander. Greg saw that LTC Bertha was tired – very tired. His eyes bore red bags beneath them and his face was gaunt. He seemed to have aged ten years in the space of only a few days. His very short steel-gray hair seemed grayer now. To the commander's left and slightly to the rear stood a slightly taller black man with no hair and a very thin moustache. He wore an iron expression that held also years of experience and compassion. Command Sergeant Major Doug Shannon had been in the Army for nearly 30 years and had experienced combat in both Desert Storm and Panama. Above his left breast pocket, Greg saw the brown embroidered jumpmaster wings with a small gold star embroidered in the middle – evidence of a combat jump. Greg had heard the stories of how the man had run out of ammunition and been forced to kill in hand-to-hand combat. He also knew that CSM Shannon never spoke of it and would change the subject if a soldier brought it up. The sergeant major peered over the gathered crowd, exuding a quiet confidence in what was certainly an atmosphere lacking of it.

LTC Bertha spoke, "We last had contact with 3-78 Infantry early last night. We have heard nothing from them since." Moans and sighs from the crowd followed and the commander held up his hand, "That does not mean they're not still out there! There could be a number of reasons they have been out of contact, including Colonel Pierce's order that we maintain radio silence unless absolutely necessary." The commander gazed out to meet the eyes of his soldiers.

"You all have worked really hard over these past couple of days, and we have engaged an enemy entirely new to us, and I know! I know most of you want to know just what was attacking us the day before yesterday, when we lost so many men to those strange craft," LTC Bertha lightly sighed and seemed to collect his thoughts.

"Over the past couple of days, we have managed to gather some tidbits of news of what may be causing these attacks. As most of you have already heard, we no longer have any contact with the United States, and even our contact with Brigade is spotty at best, even though they jumped their TOC out to the desert. Many of you noticed that your Pluggers don't work. We think that is because the GPS satellites have been knocked out. From the news reports we have got, the United States, and indeed the whole planet, was attacked en masse by an interstellar empire." The gathered men exchanged incredulous glances, muttering (and some chuckling) with each other.

"This is no joke!" thundered CSM Shannon, "Now shut up and listen up!" The men grew silent, returning their attention to LTC Bertha, a few nervous glances going to the CSM. LTC Bertha continued, "I know it sounds ridiculous, but so far as we can tell, it's the truth. I've never seen aircraft before like the ones that attacked us, and we know the Iraqis have nothing like that. We also know that our enforcement of the No Fly Zone would have shot down anything the Iraqis tried to put in the air. No, what we saw isn't owned by anybody….on this planet, and since the things attacked us we know they're not friendly. We also identified two-legged armored vehicles, and no nation that we know of deploys such vehicles. The only other pieces we gathered are from news sources supposedly controlled by this new threat force. They call themselves the "Empire." Their troops for the most part appear to be clad in white plastic-looking armor from head to toe. According to the same news sources, they have set up governing facilities in every major national capitol. If the news sources we monitored are to be believed, their empire controls millions of worlds." The men muttered with each other again, alarm on their faces. A few just stared blankly ahead. One of the company commanders stood up.

"Sir, if this empire is so vast and powerful, how the heck are we supposed to fight against it?" said CPT Hayes, the B Company commander.

"We're still trying to work that out, Phil. There is simply too much we don't yet know. In fact, I'm glad you brought that up, because this evening we are holding a meeting between myself, the staff and all company commanders and first sergeants to discuss that very issue. In the meantime, we will continue to move in order to keep the enemy from getting a fix on us, and we will keep FM comms to an absolute minimum. Use runners. That's all I have for now, so let's get back to work." For the remainder of the day, Greg went over information with CPT Anderson on what they knew of the Empire's forces. So far it wasn't much. They knew they had the bowtie craft and two-legged walkers. Based off of reports and some spotty television images, the white-clad soldiers were plentiful. Over that afternoon, Greg used the HF radio to contact the States. He reached a specialist monitoring a set at Fort Gordon. From the specialist he learned that the invaders had struck hard and fast at all major cities in the US. Horrific green lances of fire had streaked down from space, obliterating the Pentagon, the Whitehouse, the Capitol building, and many other hubs of military command and control. The skies were darkened with the bowtie craft and many other types of craft. Apparently, civil authorities such as police forces had put up the most resistance, but the white-clad soldiers had made short work out of them. The few jet fighters that were scrambled were also quickly overwhelmed, and most airbases in CONUS had been obliterated by the green bolts from space. Simply put, the US had not been expecting an attack, especially from space, so they were taken completely by surprise.

-------

In the darkness, CPT Eckstein, the S1, called roll. All company commanders were present except for CPT Simpson, the C Co. commander who had been killed by the bowtie craft two days prior. His XO, 1LT Nick Sudo was now in command. Once the roll call was complete, LTC Bertha stood up to address his men.

"So, here is what we found out today. Greg managed to reach someone at Fort Gordon using an HF radio. For some reason the invaders have not yet occupied that post, so for now it is still being manned by our troops – those that are left and haven't gone AWOL yet anyway. The invaders have an impressive array of weaponry at their disposal, including very large, four-legged APCs that are heavily armed. They have garrisons in nearly every major city. The US government no longer exists as a functional entity. The enemy wiped out the Whitehouse, the Pentagon and many other key C2 nodes from space in their initial strike. From all accounts, the President, the Vice President, much of Congress, and all chiefs of staff were killed. The Empire is claiming control over the entire planet, and only minor nations have yet to fall. Some fallout from the Empire's invasion was an invasion of South Korea by North Korea, which thought the invasion was from the US. Seoul and nearly every city north of it lies under a blanket of deadly chemicals, and heavy fighting is still underway. According to reports, the Empire is simply monitoring the fighting but doing nothing about it. S2, tell us what else you know."

CPT Anderson spoke, "Gentlemen, the colonel has covered most of what we already know. The enemy has the ability to strike targets from space, and based on what we have been able to learn they have several very large ships in orbit, each of which is heavily armed. Their size and composition is impossible to determine, but seeing that they conquered every major government on the planet within a couple of days, their military ability and might is simply unmatched by anything our history records. We dare not make many calls on any form of electronic communication, because we have reason to believe that the enemy's IEW abilities are vastly superior to ours and our radio transmissions, in secure cyphertext or not, are being monitored, which is why we now use the SOI. I believe that the attack on us two days ago was by a scouting force only." Some of the officers groaned and muttered to one another.

"Thank you, Deuce," said LTC Bertha. "Right now, we have no communication with either Brigade or 3-78 Infantry. Whether they've been destroyed, moved out of comms range, or whatever, we don't know. Nor can we reach any higher elements. Our Class 3 and 1 supplies are running low, and we don't have much water left either. Yesterday evening, I sent a runner back to Kuwait City to check on activity there. He should be back late tonight. If Camp DOHA is still in one piece and there are no enemy forces in Kuwait City, we will probably infiltrate back there. Otherwise, I'm open to your recommended courses of action." At first most of the officers were silent. It was an awkward silence as Greg couldn't see anyone's face in the darkness. Finally, CPT Anderson grunted.

"Sir, it seems to me that we may have to fight this Empire the same way smaller nations in the past fought us."

"Go on, Hugh," said LTC Bertha.

"Well, in Vietnam we were never beaten and we overwhelmed the enemy whenever there was a stand-up fight. Even so, they used guerilla tactics to pick at us over the years, cause casualties, and finally public opinion forced us to leave. If we could link up with other surviving units, even from other nations, we could wage an insurgency-style of warfare against these invaders."

"Of course, we'd shed these uniforms and just blend in with the local populace," added Greg.

"Terrorists," said CPT Halverson.

"Come again?" replied the CSM.

"This Empire would brand us as terrorists."

"So?"

"Just a thought is all. Do we really want to go there?"

"Do we really have a choice?" replied CPT Anderson. That evening more conversation was swapped among the leaders of the Deathbringer battalion, culminating in heated debate. Finally, LTC Bertha closed the meeting announcing a decision he would make known to them the next morning. Greg returned to his usual spot on top of his track and began rolling out his sleeping mat and fart sack. Off to his left, he heard the approach of a HMMWV. As he closed his eyes, Greg heard footfalls in the sand and the voice of the officer he knew the commander had sent to Camp Doha. What had the runner learned. Greg really wanted to know, but exhaustion won him over and he drifted off into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

"So they're not considered important enough for the invaders to occupy… Don't know if I would want to rejoice or be pissed off about that fact were I a Kuwaiti," said Greg. He of course referred to the fact that Kuwait City was as of yet unoccupied by any of the white-clad troopers from the invading force from the stars.

Across from him sat Steve, still munching on a granola bar from his MRE. He looked up at Greg, sniffed, and then glanced off to his left. Greg followed his gaze to the setting sun. Their 577 was one of about five vehicles in sight. Just to the left of the setting sun, Greg spotted the familiar silhouette of a fueler, and next to it was a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, covered by a camouflage net. They hadn't been using camo nets before the initial attacks, but the invaders sometimes engaged and destroyed vehicles with scout craft if they happened to be flying in the area. Nowhere around him were there any tanks. Those had mostly been locked and left in the desert, for they did nothing but drink massive amounts of now hard-to-find JP-8. Their own 577 was already covered with camo netting, and Greg silently hoped that the radar-reflective materials embedded in it would be sufficient to hide them from any probing sensors used by the invaders.

"The old man is supposed to give us an OPORD tomorrow morning," said Steve. The radios in front of him were silent, but they were powered on. Unlike only a week and a half ago, they rarely came to life with message traffic – that was just entirely too risky. They were reduced to using couriers for the most part, and some of the local Kuwaitis had given them civilian vehicles, which the couriers used to move from one location to another. Tactical vehicles were too likely to draw the wrong attention these days. Greg nodded and returned his attention to his weapon. He now carried the M-16 with him wherever he went, and he had been issued several clips worth of 5.56 ammunition. His Load Bearing Equipment was no longer just for training value. For the first couple of days, the battalion commander had ordered everyone to wear flack vests, but that had not lasted long. Water was no longer readily available, and the heavy vests seemed to just suck up heat and distribute it into the soldiers wearing them. They had nearly lost two men to heat stroke. Moreover, against an enemy likely to shoot you with ray guns, what good would a flack vest be, except maybe to slow you down on foot and make you into an easier target?

"One of the S4 types supposedly got us some native clothes. Bunch of Bedouin robes or something for us to wear for when we get to the city," said Greg. Guess that'll be detailed in the OPORD too. He looked up and saw that the sun had dipped below the horizon. Almost unconsciously, he reached into the track and turned off all ambient light. Light discipline was also now critical. Most of the generators were buried into the sand in order to muffle their sound. The desert out here was mostly flat, and sound carried a long way. Even so, Greg wondered if the practice was worthwhile. He doubted it. The Empire probably knew they were out here, but they likely didn't consider the scattered battalion a sufficient enough threat. Greg didn't know if that made him feel better or worse. Once again, his thoughts drifted back to Hinesville, where his girlfriend Sandi lived. Hinesville was a small town, so maybe the invaders had left it alone. Then he shook his head. Fort Stewart sprawled right next to the town, and from what Greg had been able to gather, the invaders had essentially laid waste to most major military installations in CONUS from space with their giant orbital ships. Hinesville, and Sandi, likely no longer existed as anything more than smoldering ruin. Anger again rose to the surface of Greg's emotions, followed by a feeling of helplessness. He finished cleaning the bolt of his rifle and slid it into place, along with the charging handle. You didn't want to put much in the way of lubricant on your weapon out here. Dust could quickly congeal on the "break free" and render one's weapon inoperable. He looked up at Steve, who was still gazing toward the remaining reddish light of dusk. They were in for a long night.

-------

"Greg!" said the kid with dirty-blond hair. He sported a grubby brown t-shirt with jeans, and he wore a worried expression. Greg turned away from the boy and looked again at the homemade hovel. Garbage bags had been tied and taped together in a haphazard manner, and they were lashed to several smaller trees in the immediate area with some old twine. Underneath the shelter he could see some old blankets, and a small transistor radio emitted tinny music at a low volume. The radio and some other effects were perched atop some old tires and some plywood. Somebody had recently been there, and that was for sure. Greg had never before seen a bum's hideout, and he was convinced this was the coolest thing he had ever seen or would ever see.

"Greg!" came a frightened warning again from the only other kid in the area. Greg turned his head again in annoyance, "Shut up, Rodney! You worry too much." He advanced further into the shelter to get a better look. The scent of old liquor grew stronger. Glancing to his left, he could make out the Interstate that wound from north to the south. It was a busy Saturday, and the road was packed with crawling traffic. They were probably two hundred or so yards into the forest off to the side of the Interstate. They'd come from the railroad tracks on the other side, and to his right Greg could see the ruins of a building that had once been home to a go-cart race track, still outlined with old tires with grass and plants sprouting up through them. That helped explain where the bum had got the old tires he was using for a chair and a table. It really did stink…

"Hey! Kid!" Greg whirled to his rear just in time to see a middle-aged man with a full face of hair, glaring at him and advancing toward him. The man's disposition was that of someone who had fallen on hard times and had not seen a shower in a long time. Greg swallowed as he backed away from the angry bum, but the man continued stalking menacingly in his direction. Behind him, Greg could hear the footfalls of his running friend. Greg remembered what he had thrown down only a few yards away and was desperately trying to remember where he had tossed it. Looking about him franticly, Greg saw the object and grabbed for it. He yanked it up and aimed the old BB gun at the bum, whose faced then quickly transformed from anger to fear. The gun didn't work, but the bum couldn't know that. He and Rodney had found the damaged weapon off to the side of the railroad tracks, and Greg had enjoyed carrying it around with him throughout the day. The bum was now backing away, and he raised his hands into the air, "What did I ever do to you? Why do you want to come into my home like this? Don't shoot me, kid." The fear in the man's face was all too evident. Greg was now terrified … not only of the man but by the whole situation.

"I'm not gonna kill you. I just want to get out of here." He turned and ran after his friend. The tinny music from the small radio grew more faint with distance. He didn't know what the bum was doing, nor did he turn to find out. He just kept running. Off in the distance, he could see that Rodney had stopped near the railroad tracks and was now waiting for him. He tripped and tumbled forward, the broken BB gun flipping out in front of him.

-------

"Wake up!"

Greg sat up. The track on which he had been sleeping was running again. He blinked, but he couldn't see anything. It was really dark out here. He blinked again and rubbed his eyes, "Huh, what's up? We moving again?"

"Yeah," said the voice without a face, but then Greg remembered its owner. SGT Jones continued, "We SP in five minutes, sir." Greg glanced down to his watch and pressed a button. It revealed to him that it was now 0350. Argh! Three hours of blasted sleep! That's all he'd had – this just wasn't fair. Resigned to his ill fate, Greg crawled out of his fart sack and buttoned up his DCU shirt. He rolled up his bag and mat and jumped down to the desert floor. The track had already pulled up its ramp and only the back hatch was yet open. Inside, Greg could see weak red light and knew that somewhere in there was CPT Anderson with a "dog bone" glued to his ear. He tossed his gear inside and stepped through the hatch, shutting it behind him.

The track rumbled for a long time, but Greg didn't know where it was carrying him. He had drifted off to sleep while sitting up, opposite his boss. It was very noisy inside the 577, but that did nothing to keep Greg from succumbing to unconsciousness. Only when the vehicle stopped and powered down did Greg wake back up. The inside of the track was no longer mostly dark, bathed in artificial red light. Instead, he saw daylight pouring through the driver's view ports toward the front and from the TC hatch above. Confused, he glanced down at his watch, although it was still too dark inside the vehicle for him to make out what it said. He pressed the button, bathing black numbers in a green background. "Six thirty," Greg muttered to himself. He looked up to where CPT Anderson had been monitoring the radio during the trip. He was no longer there. Greg felt mildly irritated that he had not been wakened. How long had they been stopped. There was no way for him to tell. Briefly, Greg flirted with the idea of just falling asleep again, but his curiosity was sufficiently strong to prevent that and he slowly righted himself and reached for the hatch.

The vehicle had already been covered by camo net, and greg saw the support poles reaching up toward the netting before spreaders gently shaped it irregularly. A small v-shaped opening in the netting allowed Greg access to the quickly-warming desert and he saw that a group of men were gathered around a camouflaged HMMWV. The battalion commander was talking to them. The S2 looked up and saw Greg looking at them, and he motioned for Greg to join them. Greg nodded, reached into the 557 and got his gear.

"…will break into several groups," said LTC Bertha. Greg could now make out what the commander was saying. LTC Bertha paused, looked and Greg who sat down with the other men, and then continued, "Our friends in Kuwait have provided new documentation that the Imperials are supposedly using for identification, since we know that our military ID's won't do. The plan is to infiltrate back to Kuwait City and catch passage back to the states, but it'll have to be by boat." That was met by some groans and soft curses.

"I know, I know," continued the commander, "but it isn't like we can just catch a plane to the States. The enemy owns the sky now, and we need to remember that. They don't seem to have cracked down on sea traffic though, so that's our ticket." Greg looked at some of the other officers and NCOs around him. Most of them appeared to be as tired as he was – some of them even more so.

The commander continued, "We will also be in civilian clothes, and you are all to let your facial hair grow out. There are not an abundance of clean-shaven men from this area of the world, and there aren't all that many fair-skinned men either. For that reason, we will wear native clothing and be mixed in with Arabs. Some of you will be dying your hair black. Each of you will get a new personal history, detailing why you are here in the Middle East, and you had better commit it to memory."

-------

Two days later, Greg found himself in the back of a red Nissan pickup truck, jouncing down a poorly maintained road toward Kuwait City. With him were three Kuwaiti men, SPC Flory and CPT Higgens. All three soldiers now sported a slight growth of facial hair and were wearing Bedouin robes with hoods pulled over their heads. For now, they wore their DCUs beneath their uniforms. They had left their weapons with the TOC, and that seemed all too unnatural and wrong. But these were different times, and American soldiers couldn't afford to be conspicuous, even in a city as of yet unoccupied by the alien invaders.

Upon reaching the outskirts of Kuwait City, they came to a checkpoint, manned by Kuwaiti soldiers. Greg noticed that the outpost was not flying the Kuwaiti flag. In its place was a flag with a strange circular symbol that reminded Greg somewhat of a wagon wheel with odd angles inside in the place of spokes – like some strange gear wheel. One of the Kuwaitis at the checkpoint walked around the truck, while the driver talked animatedly with one of the other men, who seemed to be in charge of the checkpoint. The man who had walked around to the back of the pickup suddenly raised his rifle and pointed it at SPC Flory, who raised his hands into the air. The man with the rifle was shouting in Arabic. The man in charge who had been talking to the driver ran around to the back of the truck, glanced quickly at SPC Flory and spoke softly to the man aiming his weapon at the frightened soldier. He slowly lowered his weapon and nodded. He said something else in Arabic, and the truck was allowed to continue toward the city.

Once they were inside Kuwait City, Greg could see that the invaders indeed had a presence therein, but it was minimal. Every so often, he spotted a small group of white-clad troopers with helmets that reminded him of skulls walking about. He remembered that they were supposedly called stormtroopers. At one point he spotted a strange vehicle on two legs that stood a couple of stories off the ground, and he remembered the radio reports about those things on the day they had been attacked in the desert. But mostly he kept his head down, and his hood never came off. Eventually they reached a home. The place could be more accurately described as a palace. Inside the home/palace courtyard (the place was enclosed in an ornate stone fence), they were told to dismount, and they went into the house. A plump Kuwaiti man in an ornate robe greeted each of them with a kiss. The Kuwaiti asked them to follow him. Greg looked up to see a long table full of all kinds of food, and involuntarily he began to salivate as delicious odors filled his nostrils.

Greg sat on a fancy sofa, fully stuffed with food. He felt tired now, but he knew that was the food being digested within him. The Kuwaiti man continued telling him and the two other soldiers how US forces had rescued him from one of Saddam Hussein's detention camps during Desert Storm, where he had been certain he would soon be tortured or killed. Too many of his friends had been murdered by Iraqi thugs before US forces drove Iraqi forces from Kuwait, and Saddam had taken many of his fellow countrymen into exile in Iraq to meet a fate only Allah knew. He said he had rejoiced greatly when he learned that the Imperial invaders had killed Saddam and his sons before installing their own governor in Baghdad. Many prisoners had then been freed from Saddam's dungeons by the Empire, but he still did not know the fate of many of his friends. He felt it was Allah's will that he help every American soldier that he could to return to their homeland, and he was very sorry to hear of all the death and destruction that had happened there. Greg learned that they would be leaving on a boat in two weeks time. In the meantime, they were to enjoy the hospitality of this rich Kuwaiti man, within his palatial home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

A brass sky seemed to spread nearly infinitely outward, but below were pools of every size imaginable, separated from each other by either a few yards or in some cases by inches. Greg found himself in front of one such pool. This one was circular in shape, as all the pools within his vision appeared to be. The pool just in front of Greg was ringed with a deep blue tile, and the tiles were quite small, appearing to be but an inch in size. The spacing between them was perfect – more perfect than it had any right to be. The water within was also a deep blue in color. Greg looked deeply into the water, but he could not see the bottom of the pool. It seemed to be so deep that the water turned from dark blue to black as it stretched into infinity. This particular pool looked to be approximately thirty feet across. A sudden swishing sound caused Greg to spin about. This one was a smaller pool, and it had developed within it a whirlpool, and the water within spun quickly, lowering in level until it drained. Looking down into the now empty and inexplicably dry pool, Greg saw that this one was only a few feet deep, and the bottom of it was flat. Greg found himself confused, as he saw no evidence of a drain, nor did he detect any outlet through which the water may have drained. More curious now, he stepped into the empty pool, looking about for where the water that had been there only moments before might have gone. Suddenly, he felt himself dropping and in alarm Greg glanced upward to see that the top of the pool was now more than a dozen feet above him. Water quickly began to fill the pool and he became caught up within a rising whirlpool. Simultaneously, an invisible force began to pull him downward. Greg began to panic and fought to get to the surface of the spinning whirlpool.

-------

"…up, sir!" Greg shook his head and sat up. He was still somewhat groggy from the night before. The large and ornate bed in which he found himself was set inside of an ornate room. An exotic sword hung on the wall, on which Arabic writing was written in golden script. Additionally, he saw paintings of obviously Arabic scenery, and other unrecognizable objects adorned the walls as well. Greg looked to his left and saw a young man with a nearly full face of hair. His skin was tan in color, but his green eyes seemed out of place with the garb he was wearing. They had resided in the palace of a rich Kuwaiti they knew only as Ahmad for nearly two weeks. During that time, they had grown out their facial hair in order to fit more easily in with men of the local population. Greg reached up to scratch his own beard and moustache, both of which still seemed to him alien and out of place upon his own face. He looked at the young man to his left with a quizzical glance, recalling only now that he had recently spoken and had to be here in his room for a reason.

"Did you say something earlier, Flory?"

"Yes, sir. Ahmed has invited us to breakfast, and Captain Higgens wants to talk to you once we're done with chow."

Greg blinked, then he glanced quickly to his watch. Black numbers in the LCD confirmed that it was 0943, local time. He had been tired. Memorization of his new past and occupation was not an easy task.

"Peter," said Greg.

"Sir?" replied a confused Flory.

"Peter Stellano is my name. I am a former contractor from northern Italy, and you are Pedro Filando, a migrant worker from Cuba.

"Oh," said Flory, "Yes sir… uh, I mean, si, senior." Flory's mother was Puerto Rican, so a ghost of a dialect lingered within his voice. He was also fluent in Spanish. "And, Capt… er, uh, Mister Feuerbach wants to speak to you."

Greg smiled at Flory. Years of military discipline was difficult to overcome, and the practice of behaving as civilians toward each other, especially in light of their differences in rank, did not come easy. Part of Greg's smile was prompted by the Captain Higgins' new name. Higgins looked very German, complete with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Moreover, since he had spent many years stationed in Germany, he knew a lot of German. So the role of Karl Feuerbach, stuffy German engineer seemed to fit him quite well. Captain Higgins was the only one of the three American soldiers in the group who did not now sport facial hair, though he wasn't beyond growing a bit of stubble on his upper lip.

Greg felt stuffed, as he normally did at the end of any meal put in front of him by the servants of Ahmed. And also as usual, the massive dinner table still contained an overabundance of all kinds of food, even upon completion of the hearty breakfast. Ahmed had excused himself from the dining room, and the three soldiers sat alone at the table. Flory sat to the left of CPT Higgins, who now stared at Greg.

"The boat will set out in two days time from port," said Higgins. "I know the route the boat is to take, but for reasons of security neither you or Pedro will be told those details."

Greg blinked. Higgins had used their made-up names without breaking stride. His hair was a bit longer now, some of it starting to intrude over the tops of his ears. Greg well knew that under normal circumstances, the Armor officer would never have worn his hair any way other than a high and tight, the sides shaved nearly to the skin. But these were not normal circumstances. Higgins continued, "At every port call, we will meet pre-arranged contacts who will provide necessary information to us and brief us as necessary. I will say that our final port of call is to be on the Eastern seaboard of CONUS. I don't think I need to remind you that nearly all of the US is under enemy occupation. Their ISR assets are clearly on a level far advanced beyond anything we have seen, and we are maintaining nearly total radio and computer silence."

"What about the internet?" interrupted Greg.

Higgins looked mildly annoyed at the interruption, but then he continued, "Reports that I've got on that is that we've tried that and met with limited success. The enemy has well-trained hackers, and they've hired native programmers and internet geeks to root out any internet traffic perceived to be subversive to their occupation efforts. In short, don't worry about it." He glanced at Flory, who seemed to be taking it all in.

One concern nagging at Greg's mind was the hospitality of the Kuwaitis. Although they were still mostly grateful for the American invasion that had freed them from Saddam, they had to know that Washington DC now lay in smoldering ruin and the United States itself lay under occupation from a greater power. Ahmed seemed friendly enough, but for how long would such friendliness last, especially if these invaders were so powerful and skilled? He shook his head. LTC Bertha and his staff had to have thought the whole thing through, so who was he to worry over things like that.

-------

The ride to the docks went without incident. The pickup truck in which Greg was riding had stopped but once, and Kuwaiti soldiers had peered in, plainly recognized that Greg and a couple of his cohorts were not Arabic, and allowed them to continue their trek. Peering around, Greg noticed no surprising changes in the landscape of Kuwait City as a whole. Kuwaitis bustled about as they always had. Mercedes and other expensive vehicles jockeyed for position on the road as the wealthier put their stamp on the face of the public. The only hint of anything out of the normal routine was the occasional stormtroopers intermixed with Kuwaiti soldiers. There weren't many of those, but those who were present were never alone. There were usually two to six of them together. Then there were the strange-looking symbols on flags in the place of where Kuwaiti flags once flew. Other than that, Greg could hardly tell the place had changed at all.

As the truck jilted to a stop, Greg filed off of the back of the pickup truck with the others. He spotted several boats of varying shapes and sizes. None of the boats were military craft, and none of them appeared to be much more than 200 feet long. The group was herded toward what appeared to be a much-used trawler, roughly 85 feet in length. One the back was something painted in Aramaic, so Greg could only guess at the vessel's name. The boat was nondescript in nature and actually pretty dingy. It would attract little in the way of attention, either from the invaders or pirates. As they filed onto the boat, the men descended a ladder into the lower cabin. Therein, a man in a US Naval uniform sat in a chair with a headset on, staring at a computer monitor. From the man's appearance, he was either a chief petty officer or an officer. The man swiveled his chair about and stood up. Greg could now see the silver oak leaves on his collar. He began to open his mouth when a voice from behind him said, "Commander Nash, it's good to see you again." Greg turned his head and saw a scruffy looking man in Arab garb with dark facial hair interlaced with steel gray. While he didn't look the part of a battalion commander, LTC Bertha's voice was unmistakable.

"Ron, it's good to see you again too," replied the Naval officer. The gaze of LTC Bertha shifted to the equipment that CDR Nash had been manning. "So that's what we're reduced to. What's the latest?" CDR Nash looked to the shortwave radio set and replied, "Most of the joint chiefs were killed, but a couple survived here and there. The CINCs are underground now – those who are left, constantly on the move. Much of what is left of the CONUS forces are underground too, blending in with the population."

"Civilian leadership?"

"All but gone, I'm afraid. The Imperials killed nearly all of them in the initial strike, including state leadership. Strange thing is … bunch of them were killed before the ships started blasting targets from orbit."

"How?"

"Nobody's really sure, but we think they were targeted assassinations."

"Methodical bastards," murmured LTC Bertha, shaking his head. Greg knew what his commander was thinking. This enemy had been watching them for some time before the invasion, and they had to have had agents and assassins in place, ready to strike when the time was right. His boss introduced him and the others to the Naval commander. They were told to make themselves comfortable – it would be a long voyage. As Greg and his counterparts were dismissed, Greg returned to the weather deck. The boat had been underway for about an hour, and he could see Kuwait City shrinking behind him. Afternoon was giving way to evening, and the heat of the day was slowly drifting into space. That thought prompted Greg to shift his gaze skyward. No stars were yet visible, but he knew that once they were that not all of the bright dots in the night were stars. Some were starships. None were friendly.

-------

The throbbing of the boat's engine had assisted Greg in sleeping. He found that he slept soundly with that engine running, its vibrations reverberating throughout the boat. With curiosity he had looked at the straps on his rack. His was the top of three racks, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what purpose such straps served. Their purpose became all too evident once the boat entered the Arabian Sea. The Persian Gulf had been somewhat calm, but now the boat entered a sea less friendly to land lovers. In the middle of the night, Greg had nearly been hurled from his rack, saving himself from becoming close and personal with the opposite bulkhead only by maintaining an iron grip on one of the overhead pipes. In the process of doing so, he had nearly cracked his head in half on one of those pipes. Those mysterious straps now seemed ripe with purpose, and he used them to strap himself securely into his rack. While the boat tossed no less, Greg stayed firmly in-place.

The boat made plenty of stops, along its month-long voyage, but at no time did the Americans leave its relative safety. Greg had spent nearly three days violently sea sick, but his sole comfort was knowing that others shared that fate. The Navy officer seemed somewhat smug at seeing his Army counterparts suffering such effects, but to his credit he never said anything. Everyone was downright ripe with odor, as the boat sported only one shower, and it was rarely used. Fresh water at sea was a scarce commodity on a boat that small. One break was a cool rain shower off the coast of Africa. The sea was not too threatening, so most of the men took turns bathing in the rain, topside. Toward the end of the third week, Greg was seriously wondering if land truly existed, surmising that perhaps the invaders had blasted everything but the ocean itself to smithereens. Only twice during the voyage did Greg spot aircraft. One was clearly a civilian airplane, and the other was clearly not anything he had before seen. It wasn't a bowtie aircraft, like the one that had attacked his unit in the desert, but it also wasn't like anything he could identify. Either way, whatever was piloting it seemed to pay no attention to the boat.

-------

Greg shifted in his rack. Something was amiss, but he couldn't nail down what it was. It was dark, but then the berthing area generally was, since all shifts slept here. Silence. That was it. Everything was quiet. Something else too – stillness. The boat wasn't being tossed about by waves. Greg peeled himself from his rack and slowly descended to the deck. He dressed and climbed the ladder to the main cabin. Through a portal, Greg could see land. The boat was docked, but where? CPT Higgens chose that time to enter the main cabin and look at Greg.

"Filando, go get your gear." Greg was temporarily confused, but then he remembered his fake name. He turned to retrieve his barracks bag. Greg soon learned that they were in Fort Lauderdale. The invader presence was much more prominent here than it had been in Kuwait City. Next to one of the docked cruise ships, Greg saw a strange structure around which stormtroopers were milling about. The structure reminded Greg somewhat of an ancient fort, complete with gun towers ringing it. Within the confines of the fort, Greg spotted a couple of two-legged armored walkers. The Americans, still dressed in Arabic garb, filed into a white van and headed into the city. They were stopped at two checkpoints, manned by stormtroopers. Neither location appeared to be interested in detaining anyone, and the group was allowed to continue on its way.

The house they stopped at seemed ordinary for the most part, though the yard was gated. As the men entered the home, Greg saw that it was well-furnished. He was allowed to take a shower and change into civilian clothes. It felt great to shave off his beard, but he left his moustache in place. An all-American lunch added to his refreshment, and Greg attacked his hamburger with ferocity. He was sure that a Coke had never tasted so good. Greg now sported dark slacks and a polo shirt. As he and his cohorts finished their meal, they retired to a room Greg had not before noticed. He wasn't quite sure of how it had escaped his notice, but the entrance to the room didn't appear to have been a door. It was then that he noticed that a bookcase had been slid to the side. The inside of this new room was more akin to a briefing room, complete with an overhead projector linked to a laptop computer.

"So basically, we're looking at a low-level insurgency against the Empire," said LTC Bertha. The man with the black goatee nodded somberly. Greg felt his head swimming with the plethora of information still newly crammed within his mind. A galactic empire spanning literally millions of star systems, and now expanding into an entirely different galaxy – incredible! How could they hope to offer any form of resistance to so vast and overwhelming a force? Insurgencies had tied up superior military forces before, but nothing on a scale such as this had ever been even imagined. The men at this table seemed determined to do just that, and they had to know what level of opposition they faced. The briefing told of vast star fleets of millions of warships, apparently capable of rending entire planets lifeless. What if this Empire decided Earth was no longer worth occupying and instead decided to render it lifeless? LTC Bertha informed the gathered party that he would give further instructions the following day.

Greg looked at the night sky of Fort Lauderdale. The evening was warm and humid, and one could hardly see that anything was any different than it had been since this city was first established as a major American city. Only bits and pieces here and there bespoke of Imperial occupation, but even that seemed relatively low-key. The Imperials seemed little interested in changing the status quo, so long as resistance to their rule was kept to a low roar. Plans were being set into motion, and Greg was privy to but a small portion. How long would the status quo remain in place?


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The day was oppressively hot – almost _too_ hot. The sun beat mercilessly on the boy's pale skin through a cloudless sky, and the humidity could be cut out of the air with a knife. He was sweating profusely, beads running down his mostly-wet t-shirt and making him itch. Even now, he reached behind toward the small of his back to get at a particularly gnawing itch.

"Yikes!" yelled the boy as he nearly tumbled from his bicycle while reaching behind his back. Embarrassed, he was rewarded with a giggle from the larger boy to his right. Greg wiped sweat from his forehead, sweeping some red hair out of the way. He glared at the boy, but his glare didn't hold. Bobby still held a jovial smile on his face as he studied his friend, and Greg's glare transformed into a smile. He looked at Bobby's bike. It was as worn and used as his own, but Bobby took great care of it, constantly cleaning it and attaching an occasional sticker, usually from a cereal box, to part of its frame. A cartoon Hulk glared menacingly out of the most recent sticker. Greg turned to study their target. Both boys were poised at the top of a long boat ramp, leading about three hundred feet into the lake ahead. He glanced at Bobby, and Bobby winked. Greg jammed his foot onto the pedal and let out a rebel yell. Both boys raced toward the water on their bicycles, racing each other and yelling at the top of their lungs. Greg could feel the warm breeze on his face get stronger the faster he pedaled. Gravity was an ally for both boys as the water got closer and closer.

_WOOOSH!_ The cool water swiftly slowed Greg's bike, as it coursed around him and offered resistance to both he and his bike. As usual, holding on was hard, but Greg managed. He laughed and yelled, almost simultaneously as the refreshing water cooled his skin, which had been only recently so hot. Greg glanced over to share his joy with his friend. Bobby wasn't there.

"Bobby!" yelled Greg, and then he checked himself. If Bobby was hiding underwater, he wouldn't hear him shout. Greg felt a bit miffed – this was a stupid trick to play on him. His anger turned slowly to panic. Bobby wouldn't wait this long under water. Greg dropped his bike in the just above waist-high water, and he sloshed over to where he knew Bobby had gone into the water. He tripped over Bobby's bike, and then he submerged, feeling around. He felt some fabric, followed up to feel an arm. Struggling, he pulled on the arm and pulled Bobby's face from the water. His eyes were half-open. Greg put his ear to Bobby's mouth, and he heard no breathing.

"Bobby!"

-------

Greg awoke with a jerk, sharply inhaling. Darkness greeted his eyes, and a slow droning of a fan in the room was the only noise to permeate the darkness. BASIC. Why was that word on his thoughts? He remembered the _Timex Sinclair 1000_ he had as a kid. Why did he remember that stupid little excuse for a computer? It was his first – his dad had given it to him to use. Dad had even installed a power switch on the flat black box with soft-touch keypads, since the device didn't come with one. BASIC was the language the little computer understood. Greg's dad wouldn't let him have an _Atari 2600_, like a lot of kids Greg knew had at home. No, dad made Greg learn BASIC, because the only video games Greg was allowed to play were those he could program into the little Sinclair. Greg had bought magazines for the little machine. He remembered copying pages of BASIC code into the little black box and then trying out the programs. They were crude. One he remembered had a little L that moved up and down and would fire a solid line of dashes at enemy X's that moved randomly from the right. The game was supposed to be somewhat reminiscent of Defender. There was no sound in his game, although with a few more lines of code he could have heard a beep every time he fired. BASIC – he still remembered some of it:

10 CLS

215 FOR T = 1 TO 1000

260 IF INKEY$ " " THEN GOTO 270

45 IF X = 200 THEN GOSUB 900

Greg shook his head. BASIC: That isn't why that word stuck to his mind here in the dead of night; it was something else. The face of LTC Bertha came to mind. That was it. Role-playing – they were role-playing now. What had LTC Bertha told him that made the word, "basic" so important? Greg thought to last month, just after his crew arrived in Fort Lauderdale.

-------

"You have to make a choice," LTC Bertha told the assembled men. Greg glanced around the crowd. The room could comfortably hold about 40 people, and about that many were there now. He saw some of the men he had come to know in the Deathbringer Battalion. Captain Higgens stood off to one side. His brown hair now fell to nearly his neck, and he had a bushy moustache. Greg wouldn't know him from Adam had he not known him in full military trim, complete with flat-top haircut and no facial hair at all. First Sergeant Miller stood almost on the opposite side of the room. This man had some Asian in him, but Greg couldn't peg from where. 1SG Miller now had longer hair, though not as long as Captain Higgens, and 1SG Miller sported much darker hair. On top of his head was the always-present New York Yankees cap. Absently, Greg wondered to himself if the good senior NCO ever took it off anymore, even to sleep. Off to the right of LTC Bertha, sitting to the commander's right was the burly CSM Shannon. His dark-blue polo shirt was nearly as dark as his deep-brown skin. His eyes were alert, as he keenly scanned the room, mentally sizing up each individual and filing away thoughts of them into his mind. Unlike most of the other men, he had not changed his look all that much, other than shaving off all of the hair on his head. CSM Shannon's eyes connected with Greg's, and Greg quickly glanced down and then returned his gaze to LTC Bertha.

"…and we can have no dissension in the ranks, not at this point," continued the commander. He looked pointedly at several men, shifting his gaze lightly over others. In his own mind, Greg could imagine what his battalion commander was thinking. Who would remain loyal? Who could not be trusted? It was an awful thought, but it nonetheless sprang to mind.

"The choice is before us all," said the old man with the hint of a smile coming to his lips. "No more paychecks, even for me … what we do now, we do for nothing – for the defense of our nation. Yes, we are under occupation, and by a force vastly superior to our own, and we could certainly never hope to match that power in a thousand years."

"Superpower," muttered a voice to Greg's left. He shifted his gaze, along with most of the men in the room. He saw a young man with light-brown hair shaking his head. Captain Zilliox had been a cynic ever since Greg had known him. As one of the Battalion assistant S3 officers, he had been in the hopper for an upcoming company command. His eyes had been on Charger Company, as Captain Reed was due to rotate out of command about four months after redeployment from Kuwait. There would be no change of command now. Charger Company no longer existed as an element, save in the memories of the men who had served under the company's guidon. With some amusement, Greg recalled the night of the attack, when he couldn't raise the Chargers on the net. He smiled softly, and then the smile fled from his face as he remembered the ferocity of the alien attacks the next day. Many soldiers who called themselves Chargers paid the ultimate price that day, to a faceless enemy they had never before known.

"What was that, Mike?" inquired the battalion commander. CPT Zilliox smiled weakly at LTC Bertha.

"Superpower," he said again at barely above a whisper, "they used to call us that, sir. It's funny, how meaningless and empty a term can become in the face of … this."

"Yes, it's pretty funny," said LTC Bertha without a hint of mirth, "But then what is the measure of a man, of a people, of a nation … a former superpower? Did we start out as the big boys on the block?" The older man gazed into the eyes of the younger officer. CPT Zilliox returned his gaze at first, but then dropped his eyes.

"Or did we have help from those greater than ourselves? Were not we facing down a superpower of the time during the formation of this country?"

"Allies," said a voice from behind Greg. He swiveled to see that the source of the voice was a copper-skinned young man with piercing eyes and a determined expression. Now he was nodding, as though seeing something for the first time.

"Say again, Wade," said LTC Bertha.

Captain Wade Hines had been the Headquarters Company commander, and he had previously been the Assassin Company commander. Most of the junior officers respected him for his diplomatic abilities with senior officers and his almost eerie ability to memorize nearly everything. At no time had anyone been able to stump CPT Wade on one of his soldiers. Not only did he know every one of his soldiers by name, but he knew their spouses and children, including birthdays of each. He always expressed a genuine concern for everyone with whom he worked, but he was also the consummate professional, able to deal sternly with wayward soldiers under his command whenever necessary. He turned his gaze to his commander and repeated, "Allies. We need allies."

"Go on," commented LTC Bertha, raising his eyebrows as he sensed his young officer knew more and wanted to impart it to everyone else.

"In the Revolutionary War, we enlisted the help of the French. Of ourselves, we were no match for the British, and without allies, they would have wiped the floor with us."

"Eloquently put, Wade," said the battalion commander. Chuckles reverberated throughout the cramped room. "We have recently come across information of some potential allies that have been struggling against the Empire, but what I have so far is little more than rumor. The invasion of our world seems to have garnered attention throughout the Empire, though we are not sure as to why. We are after all, but one world, and if what we have been told is to be believed, the Empire spans millions of them."

The lieutenant colonel paced around the room, settling his eyes briefly on all the men gathered, "Not all of you were part of my battalion," He glanced at a few individuals that Greg had never before seen. The commander continued pacing, glancing at men Greg had seen briefly, "And some of you were new to the battalion when we were in the desert." He stopped and turned. The Sergeant Major stood and held up a photograph, the light barely bright enough to illuminate the image. On it, Greg could make out what was clearly a large starship, shaped somewhat like a wedge, with an apparatus that jutted up at one side. He assumed that to be the command structure. Two globes that reminded Greg of radar domes he had seen on some US Navy warships were visible at the top of either side of the command structure. Most of the men the room were wincing to get as best a view they could in the small, crowded room.

"This," said CPT Hugh Anderson, "is a star destroyer. It is approximately one mile in length, and it is believed that one of these vessels decimated American cities from space using highly-powered energy beams."

"Ray guns?" inquired a voice from off to Greg's right.

"It is also believed," continued CPT Anderson as though he had not been interrupted, "that the Empire has a great many of these vessels and others like them in a vast fleet, spread throughout the galaxy."

"Which leads us to why we are now here, in this room today," said LTC Bertha in a serious tone, "Choices. Each of us must make a choice, and we must make that choice today. Will you continue the struggle against the Empire as part of our grand insurgency, enlisting the help of whomever these faceless allies may be … or will you now part company with us and find a life for yourself in this new world in which we now find ourselves?"

Greg looked around him to the faces of the men gathered with him in the too-small room. Most looked concerned, many uncertain, a few determined. Those who continued the struggle would do so only out of loyalty. No longer was a salary waiting at the end of each month or every two weeks for those who would call themselves US soldiers. This Empire would be none too pleased to discover insurgents in their midst, and who knew how they would react to them when they did discover them? Parts of the planet had indeed reportedly suffered further wrath as a result of violence against forces of the invaders. Parts of Iraq were now smoldering ruin, after a short-lived insurgency had sprouted against the Empire there. The swath of land where insurgent activities had taken place had been simply erased; especially after some bombs and ambushes had killed Imperial troops. Greg frowned when he envisioned portions of his own land being turned to ash as a result of half-baked attacks on the invaders. Surely, the US commanders had thought that through to fruition.

"I won't ask you to voice your choices here, in this forum," continued LTC Bertha. That would be unfair to you, and unrealistic. We have a different system. Tonight, when we bed down, those of you who do not wish to continue with us will be allowed to walk out. We are a military organization, so be assured that you will be observed. Not that anyone here would do such a thing, but if anyone did make their way toward Imperial authorities to try to turn us over, they likely wouldn't make it. We will not hunt down or dog those who wish only to return to civilian life and make their own way, but make no mistake – if you leave us, then you will forget everything about us past the point that you returned here, to the States." The commander smiled. There was steel and cold promise in his words for all to hear. Still, surely someone would not listen. There was always a rat in the pack, but whom? Greg knew his decision before the commander had asked for a commitment one way or another, but the next morning he would see fewer of those he had called comrades. He would not feel ill toward them, for their choice was their own.

-------

BASIC. No, just _Basic_; not an acronym like the archaic computer language. It was the _Imperial_ language. Greg nodded to the darkness. That was it. Of course, on that fateful day more than a month ago, he had been one of the men to choose to stick it out. He was an officer in the US Army, and he felt it his duty, even if he felt he was but an ant fighting against a mighty hurricane. Others had not taken that route. Others had been gone the next morning. SPC Flory, CPT Zilliox, CPT Miguel, and even MAJ Flynn, the Battalion XO – all were gone that next morning. Not that he had been told, but the decision had already been made to relocate long before that day, and they all moved, piecemeal, to a different location, closer to Orlando, further from urban areas. Greg had heard reports that the old safehouse was raided by Imperial troops, not long after they had all displaced. The rats had apparently become restless.

"What do you want me to do?" Greg had asked his battalion commander. LTC Bertha looked at him and said, "You will enlist in the Imperial Army, or Navy, whichever you can get into." Greg's jaw dropped.

"Enlist with the Empire, sir?"

"That's right Greg. You're an intelligence officer, and we need people on the inside. You've seen recruiting posters, and offices, for the Empire. You will become an Imperial soldier in every aspect."

"How will I get in…"

"… touch with us?" finished the older man, "Don't worry about that. We'll find you when we need you. You just worry about finding yourself into Imperial intelligence. This war cannot be won in any traditional sense, and we won't accomplish anything by conducting the occasional ambush against Imperial patrols here. No, we'll need to be … creative. This will be long and drawn out, and we may not win."

"But sir, isn't the idea of our struggle to win?"

"What definition will we use for win, Greg? Win will take on a whole new meaning now. The Empire likes to use the term, "New Order," but our definition of win may well mean changing the definition of their own term. We must use all of our advantages, and we must be smart in our struggle. We will use a cell structure not unlike that of the terrorists we've fought in the past. Compartmentalized at all levels we will be, with few who know what other compartments are doing, and even fewer knowing of an overall objective. There are things happening now to which you are not privy, and to which you will never be privy. I can safely say the same of myself, for that matter."

"Okay sir, so what do you want me to do? Should I report to a recruiting office tomorrow?"

LTC Bertha laughed, "No Greg, you have to learn the Empire's language first. Basic. You need to learn Basic."

"Where, er, how do I learn Basic, sir"

"We know the Imperials give free classes on it, using those droids of theirs. You'll learn it, alright."

-------

Greg stared into the darkness remembering the conversation with his boss. He had gone to class, and he had studied non-stop for little more than a month now. The droid was patient with him, and the other students. He now had a rudimentary understanding of the main language of the Empire. Tomorrow morning, Greg would report to the Imperial recruiting station in Eustis. They were still hiring, and he needed a job. Greg smiled into the darkness. An overall plan, and plans within plans – cells, and he was to be part of it all. Tomorrow would tell. He glanced at the digital clock off to his left, the droning of the fan still cooing him to sleep. Red, glowing numbers announced that it was 3:17. He closed his eyes, and once again Greg began to dream.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Are you going in there or not?" chided the smaller boy with a wolfish grin on his face. The larger boy swayed uncertainly to his left, and a bit to his rear. His eye was fixed on the path the smaller boy had pointed out to him. Alarm was clearly evident on his sweaty face. The heat of the summer day was matched only by the oppressive humidity. The thick foliage about the two boys was dotted with palmettos, vines, and various trees, all tangled with overgrown vegetation. Behind him, the larger boy could hear the occasional car pass by, reminding him that he didn't have to do this. He could just walk away.

"Or don't that skill award mean nothin' to ya?" teased the smaller boy. His face was a mask of cruel amusement, and his green eyes bored into those of the larger boy. The smaller boy held the handle grips of a small red bicycle. The larger boy could see the skill award in his mind – a gold-colored piece of tin that he could affix to his belt, and on it was a depiction of a compass rose – the skill award for _Hiking_ in the _Boy Scouts of America_. He glanced quickly down and away from the gaze of that smaller boy; the boy had the power to sign the paperwork awarding that skill award to him. He outranked him as a _Second-Class_ Boy Scout, and he already had the skill award. But, why did he have to do _that_? The larger boy swiveled his eyes upward, just above the mottled path the smaller boy had indicated to him. The latticework in the web would have normally been beautiful to behold, and the boy was certain that morning dew would have served to increase its splendor. There, just in the middle of it was a very large spider, appearing to have only four legs arrayed out from its center. In reality, the boy knew that the spider had all eight legs, but it kept them together in pairs. That particular spider was so big, that even here at several feet away from the critter, the boy imagined that it could see it looking at him with one of its multiple eyes. While the boy knew it to be impossible, he still couldn't shake the feeling, and he shuddered involuntarily.

"Can I just walk around it?" plead the larger boy while glancing purposefully at the giant spider hanging in its sizable web.

"No! You gotta go _through_ it, " sneered the smaller boy, wiping sweat from his brow and returning the larger boy's gaze. "Or, we'll just forget about it and go home. You ain't got what it takes to get that skill award anyway, _do_ ya?"

"I'll do it!" said the larger boy with determination in his voice. He stepped toward the path blocked by the massive spider web.

"Stop!" shouted the boy. He pushed his bicycle toward the larger boy, "You gotta carry _this_, on your back with ya." The larger boy halted and studied the bicycle the smaller boy had indicated.

"Why do I got to do that?" queried the larger boy with irritation.

"We ain't got no backpack for hiking with us, do we?" said the smaller boy with a grin on his face, "This _bike_ is for that." He frowned now and then added, "Oh _forget_ it then. You don't need this hassle. We'll just leave and go home."

"What about the skill award?"

"You won't get it," replied the smaller boy.

"But why?" said the larger boy with desperation.

"Cause, you gotta _earn_ it." The larger boy looked at his nemesis and then to the path he had indicated. He took the smaller boy's bike and hoisted it onto his shoulders. He walked toward the massive spider web. As he contacted the web, he shrieked as his felt the huge spider scrambling onto his head and racing down his back. The smaller boy whooped with evil glee, laughing maniacally.

-------

Greg opened his eyes as the alarm clock continued its electronic insistence. He jabbed at the rectangular button on top of the device to silence it. With sadness, he remembered portions of his dream. The larger boy had nearly panicked and ran in front of a fast-moving car, all because the smaller boy had wanted to have some cruel fun and abuse his power. Greg had been that smaller boy. After he left the Boy Scouts, he lost track of the larger boy. Steven was his name, and he was a friendly and giving person. All that was so long ago, memories of it relegated only to occasional dreams. The clock now announced that it was 6:01.

Today, Greg was going to do something he had never thought he would do. It went against every fiber of his being. Bits and pieces of the day he was commissioned an officer in the US Army floated through his mind. He could yet envision his dad's proud visage, stained but by a single tear. He could see his mom pinning a gold bar on his epaulet, his younger sister pinning on the other.

Greg closed his eyes tightly, wishing away memory, but unwilling it came anyway, a vision of himself in uniform, his right hand in the air, mouthing words – they _were_ just words, right?

_"…having been appointed a second lieutenant in the U.S. Army under the conditions indicated in this document…"_

Words, that is all they were, and words could become meaningless enough, if you didn't dwell too long on their significance – relegate that significance to a mere uttering of syllables, breaking them down into their component parts.

_"… do accept such appointment and do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States …"_

What meaning could words _really_ have, after all, if that for which they stood no longer existed as an entity? Was the United States really anything other than a memory now? Could the forefathers of this once-great nation have foreseen invaders from unimagined realms, raining fire from the heavens and sending forth invincible engines of war?

_"… against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion …" _

If you thought about it long enough, were not oaths of any kind mere collections of words that would be by themselves unimportant and trivial? So why should any particular grouping of them have to hold some overly important meaning? Why could not any conglomeration of words simply be discarded at will if necessity dictated?

_"… and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter, so help me God."_

Greg opened his eyes, and he glanced toward the digital clock on his left. He had his orders, and while the United States might no longer exist as an entity, he had an oath to fulfill.

-------

Eustis was not a large town, and it in fact was almost a suburb of the much larger and more important city of Orlando. Millions had flocked to the metropolis from all over the world for years to celebrate with each other at places like _Disney World_. The arrival of the Empire had not changed that, and _Disney World_still drew enormous crowds. That dollars were slowly giving way to Imperial credits mattered little to those who counted the piles of either generated by such places. In the shadow of mighty Orlando, Eustis and its sister towns were of little consequence. But even here, the Empire made its presence known. Storm troopers (Greg chuckled inwardly that the white-clad troopers would bear the name of the Nazi goons from over half a century before) made their way throughout the town, in small groups. Greg noted there were never less than three together – a wise enough force-protection measure on their part. He also noted there weren't very many of them. It wasn't unusual for a resident of Eustis to go a whole day without seeing one. Greg saw no checkpoints. The storm troopers seemed content to simply run occasional patrols – Eustis being somewhat of a low-threat area. Local police were far more numerous from what Greg could tell.

Greg rode his bicycle down the right side of the street. The bike had been given to him by one of the soldiers prior to his departure from the safe house. It was nondescript, and it was broken down. Were it stolen, it would not be missed. Greg no longer tried to shift the bike's gears, as the first attempt had skipped the chain right off the front sprocket, costing him a good ten minutes of manipulating the rusty chain back on and finding a gear setting that was less offensive to the contraption. Even now, chain constantly sounded as though it were ready to leap off the sprocket again, especially when Greg applied any level of strain to the pedal. For that reason, Greg remained alert for surrounding traffic should he be forced to maneuver quickly out of the way of a larger, and fast-moving vehicle.

The morning was still somewhat cool, though morning traffic did what it could to add to the heat with engines belching heated exhaust. Greg pedaled past the _Burger King_ and continued on toward his target. He was wearing shorts today, and since he was light in skin tone he had slathered his legs, arms, face and neck with gobs of sunscreen. Even now, the sun beat mercilessly down onto his arms, probing for weaknesses in his carefully-applied armor. Beads of sweat trickled annoyingly down his temple, forming tiny rivulets down his back. He wore a _Florida Gators_ cap on his head, the bill rising high over his forehead, providing shade barely sufficient to keep the blazing sunlight out of his eyes. His orange t-shirt announced proudly that he was a member of the _Coconut Creek High School Electronics Club_. Greg had never gone to the school, but his dad had taught there many years before, and Greg got the shirt as a hand-me-down. Besides, he liked the drawing on the shirt, depicting a young man being electrocuted by an "electronic goodywhopper" he held in his arms. More than once, Greg had to maneuver deftly out of the way of an angry car driver. They did not like sharing the road with him.

Greg spotted the building. Where it had once sported a sign that announced, "US Armed Forces Recruiting", it now had the "US" removed, and an Imperial flag was pinned underneath the sign. Greg maneuvered his bike into the overhang of the building, noting that there was no place for bicycles. He spun in up on to its rear wheel and placed the bike upside-down, next to the wall. Greg looked at the entrance to the recruiting center. The old posters that had announced, "Be all you can be!" were gone. In their place were new posters. One showed the imposing bulk of a star destroyer, flanked by swarms of bow-tie craft, and beneath it was language in Basic. Quickly converting it in his head, Greg saw that it invited the unwashed masses to make something of themselves in the Imperial Navy. Another poster depicted a squad of storm troopers in the attack, all looking very imposing and frightful indeed. Taking a deep breath, Greg opened the door and entered the building.

"What can I do for you?" asked a man wearing a grey uniform when he spotted Greg. Greg noted that it was a small station, one that had been formerly manned by two US Army recruiters. The man addressing him appeared to be the only one present, and he also appeared to be a bit bored. Greg glanced at him and around the room, where posters reminiscent of the ones he had seen in the windows outside invited him to consider service in the Imperial military. Almost as an afterthought, Greg realized that the Imperial had addressed him in English, and pretty good English at that.

"I'm looking at some options for employment, and this looked like a good place to drop in on," said Greg to the man. He looked for rank identifiers on the man and noted that the man had none, so he assumed he was a non-commissioned officer, though in what particular branch of service Greg could not tell. The man also wore no name tag, but a plate on the desk announced that he was Staff Sergeant Belkor. As if reading his mind, the man extended his hand and said, "I am Sergeant Belkor of the Imperial Army, and you are …"

"Greg Yost is my name. It's a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant."

"Prior service are you?"

"Yes, actually. I was an officer in the US Army when you, er, visited our world."

"Were?" fished the Imperial NCO.

"Yes. So far as I can tell, there is no longer a United States, no longer an Army, and thus I find myself unemployed. It was only natural for me to look here, since I am a soldier by trade," added Greg helpfully.

"What became of your unit?"

"We were in Kuwait when your attack commenced."

"But you found yourself back here, how?"

"My unit disbanded once we realized there was no longer a functional US Army. I bartered for passage here to the US. I _am_ a Floridian after all, and I wanted to see home. Don't get me wrong, I don't dislike Kuwait or their people, but the sands of the desert just aren't home to me."

"I'll need to get some information from you, Greg," said the NCO. Greg had discussed all this with LTC Bertha repeatedly. Almost everything he told the recruiter was accurate, only he left out a few key details. Staff Sergeant Belkor manipulated a console that Greg assumed was a computer of some kind. It looked nothing like the QWERTY keyboard interface with mouse that Greg was accustomed to seeing, but it seemed to do the trick for the Imperial NCO. He watched the monitor embedded into the console intently, scanning through the data that came back.

"Looks like your story checks out, Lieutenant Gregory Yost. Shows here that you were assigned as an assistant intelligence officer with a tank battalion, and the last of the US Army tracking does indeed place you in Kuwait. We can continue on and look at your options."

"What sort of enlistment bonuses do you offer?" asked Greg. The NCO looked puzzled and scratched his dark hair.

"Bonuses? What do you mean?"

"In the US Army, recruiters would offer civilians enlistment bonuses for specific military occupational specialties or specific enlistment terms."

"Eh?" grunted the bemused Imperial NCO, and then he seemed to recall something. He laughed and added, "No Mr. Yost, we don't offer bonuses for enlisting. If you enlist, the Empire will see to your needs, and you will be paid. But sorry, no bonuses for volunteering for service with the Empire, unless of course you refer to the bonuses included in adventure and travel."

"Okay, fair enough," said Greg. He then asked for which jobs in the Imperial military he was qualified. The NCO asked him if he knew Basic. Greg surprised him by answering in that language, and then he further surprised the NCO by writing down some answers in Basic when prompted to do so. A small cloud of suspicion came over the Imperial NCO's face.

Recognizing that, Greg added in English, "Sergeant, the Empire is here to stay, and I was an intelligence officer. It didn't take long for me to put two and two together and come up with the conclusion that it might be a really good idea to learn the Empire's language as quickly as possible, if I hoped to be successful in this new order," said Greg. Staff Sergeant Belkor digested that and seemed to relax. He showed Greg a series of options available to him. Greg asked the NCO what the credentials were for becoming an officer in the Empire.

"Normally, you would apply to one of the academies, and the Empire selects from applications transmitted every year," answered the NCO, "But as you are from a newly-conquered territory and were furthermore an officer in the military of a conquered world, well that presents … _challenges_. If you were to enlist and prove yourself a loyal Imperial citizen, then the authorities might look on an application for commission from … someone … like you, with, um, more … what's the word – interest. Does that make sense?"

Greg was still trying to swallow the word, "conquered," when he smiled weakly and answered in the affirmative. He learned that the shortest enlistment was the equivalent of ten years, and he agreed to settle on an intelligence analysis job in the Empire's navy. He was mildly surprised to learn that there was no paperwork, but he should have figured as much. Everything, including his enlistment contract would be through that terminal.

"Oh, one more thing," Staff Sergeant Belkor added hastily, "You will have to denounce any and all allegiance to the United States prior to agreeing to serve in the Imperial Navy. Greg was careful not to swallow, as images of his past threatened to flood back into his mind. He willed them away and said, "As I told you, Sergeant, the United States is no more, so any oath I took in service to it is now moot." Staff Sergeant Belkor nodded and had Greg repeat words that all but damned his commitment to the oath he had sworn years earlier. Greg could almost see the rows of ghosts of soldiers from the American Revolution to more recent military conflicts glaring at him from behind the Imperial NCO. He wished them away as well.

-------

Three days later, Greg returned to the recruiting station with nothing more than a small duffel bag in his hand. He remembered his first enlistment when he had reported to a Military Entrance Processing Station (or MEPS as everyone had called it) in order to endure mounds of paperwork, a physical examination, and a thorough review of his enlistment contract prior to boarding a bus for the airport. This was not like that. Staff Sergeant Belkor was there that day, along with another grey-clad individual. Staff Sergeant Belkor identified the new individual as Sergeant Nagalev, also of the Imperial Army. Greg sported a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, and he looked around the small recruiting station, spotting two other individuals. One looked to be about 18 years of age and very nervous. The young man used his thin fingers to move blond locks of hair from his forehead and looked around the room. On the opposite side of the room sat a much older man, older than Greg by a number of years. The man had specks of grey in his dark-brown hair and a handlebar moustache. He was looking at the kid on the other side of the room and switched his gaze to Greg.

"You're prior service," the man said to Greg. It wasn't a question.

"That's right. Army. I just got back from Kuwait a little while ago."

"Sandbox, eh?" said the older man, nodding. He added, "Was in Desert Storm myself with the Twenty-Fourth Infantry before I hung it all up to become a civilian."

"How many years did you serve?" asked Greg.

"A little over six. Made sergeant before I got out and figured it was time to go. I was real pissed when I found out Baghdad was wide-open for the taking and we just up and left. We were still dealing with that bastard when these fellows came," said the man while motioning his head toward one of the Imperial NCOs. Greg followed the man's gaze to the grey-clad individuals.

Another five eventually joined the men. They were shuttled to Orlando on a bus and found themselves at the Orlando International Airport. Greg noted that one of the concourses had been cordoned off from the general public, and it had an unusually high concentration of Imperial personnel.

"What a sorry looking group of individuals," one grey-clad individual said to Sergeant Nagalev in BASIC as he lead the group of men down the concourse, to which he grunted in return. Greg filed down to a gate where two storm troopers stood to either side while yet another grey-clad man sat in front of a terminal. Unlike the others Greg had seen before, this one had what looked like a blue and red set of squares on his breast with metal cylinders on either side, and Greg knew him to be an officer. He had each man rattle off his name and social security number prior to going through the gate guarded by the storm troopers. Greg noted that the Imperials seemed to find it convenient to use social security numbers for those who had them instead of using their own system. Greg rattled off his information to the Imperial officer who then waved him to the gate. The storm troopers appeared not to care one way or another, though Greg guessed that any unexpected move on his part might somehow animate them.

As Greg walked down the gangway he saw that it was familiar enough, complete with the boot that would normally lead into an airplane, only this was no airplane. The interior of this vehicle was completely alien to him, but there were seats within clearly designed with human beings in mind. A grey-clad man gestured to an empty seat and said in broken English, "You sit there." Greg nodded dutifully and did so. He could not find a seat belt. Soon the cabin was completely full except for one chair. A storm trooper came through the door and took the empty chair, a weapon at port arms. The doors hissed closed, and Greg waited for the push that normally came with liftoff – he assumed the vehicle would not first roll. To his surprise the storm trooper stood up mere minutes later as he heard something clang on the door. It opened and through it Greg could see a cavernous bay with various space vehicles within. As he and his cohorts stepped out, they were separated into two groups. His was the group that had some familiarity with Basic. Greg looked to his left and nearly fell down. What looked like a huge window with a blue glow around it was all that stood between him and space. He could see nothing out there but stars.

"Welcome to the _Victory Star Destroyer Ash_," said a man in a grey uniform, "And welcome to your first day of service to the Empire."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The construction paper displayed its various colors proudly to the fluttering southern Florida breeze. Not as hot today as so many others, it was closing in on Christmas. Soon, the young boy would be released from school for the holidays, but today was only another day, albeit closer to his favorite holiday of the year. The clouds were fast-moving today, but they were no competition to the deep blue hue of the wide-open sky, and the sun shone brightly even for what passed as winter here in the south-eastern most portion of the USA. The boy heard the _ding-ding-ding_ of the bells before he saw the warning arm lower itself across the road. He ignored the warning device and drew closer to the drawbridge itself.

The boy's sister had made it to the other side of the bridge before the large two-piece bridge began to split itself in half, looking like two great-big ramps rising into the sky. The gears of the contraption clanged loudly. The bridge tender was in his tower, above her, and as usual he yelled at the boy to move further away from the operational part of the drawbridge. As usual, the boy ignored him. He looked off to his left and saw the cause of the bridge's activity. A forty-foot fishing boat slowly maneuvered toward the center of the drawbridge, its tuna tower stretching it further into the sky than it otherwise would have reached. Once the drawbridge was fully extended, the boat's engines roared, churning the maximum-allowable wake behind it and propelling it quickly beneath and then clear of the bridge.

Earlier in the day, the boy had created a Christmas chain made of different-colored construction paper. Other children in his class had created shapes from their own imagination, including shapes of angels, trees, snow-men, and bells. Now, the boy waved his left hand, with the Christmas chain in the air as a friendly gesture to the boater, though the skipper took no notice of the little boy.

The two sides of the drawbridges lurched once again into motion, and they began their slow descent toward each other, shrinking the ramps closer to the ground. Suddenly, a stiff breeze caught the boy's paper chain into the air, temporarily pulling it free from his grip. He reached out toward the chain to seize it from the air. He gasped as the leading edge of the span lowering trapped his small arm between the fixed portion of the guardrail, and the boy realized with horror that his arm was slowly being turned in-place and crushed by the overwhelming and unrelenting force of the massive bridge span as it maneuvered back into position. He glanced quickly at his sister on the other side of the bridge and yelled at the top of his lungs, "Stop the bridge! Stop the bridge! My arm is caught!"

The boy's sister looked up toward her brother over the nearly level spans and formed an "O" with her mouth. An instant later she screamed at the bridge tender above, pointing frantically at her brother across the way. The bridge tender looked first annoyed and then shocked as his gaze was drawn to the boy and his arm being relentlessly twisted and crushed by the bridge. He quickly maneuvered some controls, and the bridge lurched to a stop. He then pulled the appropriate levers to raise the bridge. The boy turned his body as the opposing guardrails slowly released his arm. He cradled the almost completely white arm with his right hand and noticed with shock that he felt nothing.

-------

Greg awoke in a strange place, absently rubbing his left elbow. The room he was in served a basic function – the berthing of multiple military personnel. What made it strange was its basic design. It was clean and sterile, as a training barracks should be, but there were strange computer terminals in the walls, complete with a myriad of blinking lights here and there. It still took some getting used to for Greg, even after four weeks of continuous training. The Empire didn't have weekends, at least as far as Greg and his cohorts were concerned. The bunk in which Greg was lying was of the make one might expect from a typical bunk, except the mattress reminded him somewhat of a hard foam, rather than what he had been accustomed to. His wall locker was a bit larger than what he had known, and instead of being secured by a padlock, it was opened with a digital key that also passed as his identification. He and his cohorts had learned early that it wasn't a wise idea to misplace that digital key. Greg looked up at the lights, which seemed to be embedded in the wall in offset intervals. They didn't emit the flicker he would have noticed with fluorescent lights, nor did he think they were incandescent lights. They provided sufficient light for the room all the same. They were brighter now, as Greg in his cohorts were supposed to be waking up and preparing for yet another day of training.

Greg sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Absently, he reached again for his left arm. There, just above the elbow, his skin was a bit too tight against the bone. Muscle that had stretched beneath the skin had been torn away long ago, and the skin seemed to look concave in an odd location. One had to look directly at the area to even notice it anymore, and Greg had full use of his left arm. He smiled dryly as he recalled a doctor telling him so long ago that they might have to amputate the arm. Too much irreparable damage had been done by the drawbridge. The doctor had been wrong in his initial diagnosis, though he did not forewarn the boy of the insufferable teasing he would receive at school.

"Hey, you're the idiot who stuck his arm in a bridge, ain't ya!"

Greg remembered the teasing with a slight tinge of bitterness. He rubbed his fingers over the tight skin. He was here now, and his arm was still okay.

"Good morning, Yost," said someone to Greg's right. He glanced that way and saw a young man with close-cropped light brown hair. His features looked somewhat European, and Greg might have marked him for a German. Greg knew that the young man was actually from a planet called _Sullust_, and he had never even heard of Earth, or the Sol system, as the Empire now called it, much less Germany. His family had long been under the employ of the _SoroSuub Corporation_, and the man had no idea where his family had originated. His name was Kip Bradon, and he had taken a keen interest in Greg and his home world. Greg was a bit older than Kip and most of the others undergoing training. Most had apparently heard of Greg's planet, and many were brimming with questions about the strange world supposedly completely outside the known galaxy. Greg wasn't very helpful about how the Empire had located Sol, but he freely shared what he knew of the history of his planet. Most were amazed that so many nations, religions, cultures, and languages existed on a single planet, and they were equally amazed that it had experienced so much brutal warfare throughout its history.

"Good to see you, Kip," Greg answered in Basic. Greg now did all of his speaking and most of his thinking in the language of the Empire. Every so often, a word in English would slip out while he was conversing, which would prompt strange glances from Greg's cohorts, but for the most part he kept all of his words in Basic. He was the only one from his planet at this installation, so far as he knew. Once leaving the galaxy containing the Sol System, the _Star Destroyer Ash _had made several stops at different star systems throughout the galaxy of the Galactic Empire, dropping off Earth natives at different locations. Greg noticed that no two were ever dropped off at one location together.

As Greg and Kip enjoyed their breakfast, they chatted with each other and two cohorts who sat with them. Greg noted that breakfast was not what he had been accustomed to on Earth, but somehow it tasted like breakfast all the same. As usual, conversation drifted to Greg's strange world.

"They say your planet had nothing but humans on it, Greg," announced a tan-skinned man with dark hair and dull grey eyes. The young man speaking to him was from a planet with multiple species. Greg gave Nallis a half-smile in answer to his statement.

"Who is _they_?" retorted Greg, half-jokingly, "… and besides, Sol has a great many different animals. Humans just happen to be the only ones that are sentient."

"I do not know, and you _know_ what I meant. I hear rumors. From what I have heard, the Sol system is not even in _this_ _galaxy_. From what I am given to understand, it would take a ship with even the fastest hyperdrive a very long time to reach the next closest galaxy, and yet it took you only a short time to reach here," said Nallis. His expression further illustrated his puzzlement.

"Look. When the Empire came to Sol, I was part of the _US Army_," said Greg. The word, "US," came out in English, prompting puzzled looks from the others gathered at the table. He quickly explained that it was one of the more powerful nations on the planet from which he came, and then continued, "As a people, we have not had space travel for very long, and we had no knowledge of _hyperspace_ or any kind of faster than light travel. We had barely sent probes to the outer edge of our own solar system. So far as we knew, we were the only intelligent beings in the entire universe."

Two of the men laughed at that comment, while Kip seemed to think about the statement with some form of seriousness. He said, "You really thought you were the only beings in the universe?"

"I didn't say that, Kip. I said we had no _knowledge_ of any other beings in the universe, beside ourselves. Plenty of people on Sol believed there were others out there, and we sent out probes to try to locate them. The US government funded large planet-bound devices designed to scan space for life outside our world, but we never found any evidence, or if we did, I never knew of it." The conversation drifted toward the space programs of Sol and then to the wars fought on the planet. Greg was just beginning to cover Adolf Hilter's rise to power in 1933, when Kip pointed out the time on his chronometer and the men rose to begin the day's training.

-------

Greg was used to creating situational templates based off of enemy doctrine. He was accustomed to providing a commander with the best possible picture of what an enemy would be, know and do in order to allow the commander to get inside that enemy's decision-making cycle and disrupt it. He was still puzzled at the Empire's vision of intelligence and its seeming lack of focus. The instructors here seemed to be more focused on systems and background checks than on discerning and comprehending enemy systems and doctrine. When he first brought up his concerns to an instructor two weeks prior, the NCO gave him a stony glance and told Greg to pay more attention to his training and spend less time poking holes in how the Empire chose to conduct training on intelligence operations. Greg decided to keep such opinions to himself from that point on, but he still couldn't help thinking of how lackluster his training was. Sure, he was learning Imperial Naval intelligence systems and procedures, but there was very little analytical thought involved, or so it seemed to him.

As Greg had studied the history of the Empire over the past month, he discovered that it had lacked a dedicated and determined enemy for about the past sixteen years. What he read on his monitor referred to the _Clone Wars_ against an army of robots, but the history seemed to leave glaring gaps and questions within it. It spoke of a republic that had preceded the Empire, but that republic was depicted as hopelessly corrupt and mired in baseless politics and backstabbing among squabbling factions. The Empire on the other hand was depicted as bringing order and balance to the chaos of the crumbling republic. Passing mention was made of a superstitious order of sorcerers who propped up the republic and helped spread its corruption among an unwilling population. These sorcerers had apparently nearly succeeded in murdering the Emperor, but their efforts had been heroically thwarted by someone called _Darth Vader_. It all seemed a bit confusing to Greg, and much of the story seemed untold.

-------

The day was filled with the yellow light of the sun, though Greg knew it to be a star completely alien to that of his home world. The planet of _Bordal_ had apparently been one of the separatist worlds during the _Clone Wars_of which Greg had read. The Empire now had a sizable garrison there, along with one of several intelligence training centers throughout the galaxy. It was on one such training center in which Greg now found himself, basking in the warm glow of the star at the center of the _Taroon_ system. LTC Bertha had told Greg that he would reach him when the time was right, but Greg began to wonder at the feasibility of such a statement, especially in light of the staggering size of the Empire. He looked down at his grey trousers, and then to the rest of his uniform. Not so long ago, he had considered those wearing such outfits to be enemy soldiers from an alien world. Now he wore that same uniform with a single silver patch of the Empire on his left sleeve. That he had to wear the over-sized helmet when conducting daily duties added little to his enjoyment of this strange uniform. Graduation from the school was but a week away, and the past seven weeks had filled his head with Imperial naval intelligence systems and functions. Greg could quickly follow the orders of officers and NCOs, plugging data into terminals and routing requests with utmost speed and precision. Greg remembered almost as an afterthought that NCOs had been referred to as _petty officers_ in the US Navy, but such distinctions appeared to be meaningless here. Today, the men were to learn of their next assignment, and some already had been informed.

"An Imperial star destroyer!" exclaimed Kip with great excitement. He had raced to greet Greg with the news upon finding out. Greg had grown to consider the young man a friend, and he was truly pleased to learn that Kip was overjoyed about his assignment. Kip had explained that assignment aboard an imperial star destroyer was a big deal, because there were far fewer of those powerful warships than the smaller ones that comprised most of the fleet. Greg had congratulated the excited young man, who then raced off to spread his good news to others.

Greg walked down the path, studying the plants off to his right. The bush he was looking at somewhat reminded him of a holly bush he had seen in Orlando, but enough dissimilarities were there to convince him that this was indeed an alien plant. The plant seemed not to care on which planet it was, and its green leaves drank in the light of the planet's star readily enough. Absently, Greg wondered what type of alien microbes constantly bombarded and invaded his body, and he wondered what kept him from getting violently ill or dead from such microbes. The Empire had apparently thought through such things, or violently sick or dead he would be by now, not to mention the Imperial forces on Sol itself. Greg thought he spotted a small insect that reminded him of a walking stick, although this one was dark green in color and was shaped slightly differently. He thought about reaching out to let it crawl onto his finger as he had done with walking sticks on Sol, but then he thought better of it. The thing might bite him. Greg sighed and turned to head back to his quarters. As he started walking that way, Kip raced up to meet him. He appeared out of breath, and his forehead was a bit moist from sweat.

"Th … the … you … you are on the …" panted Kip as he tried talking to Greg," the _Dominion_. Ah … I should have … waited for you to find out, yourself. Sorry about that, Greg," said Kip with regret now mixed into his facial features. Greg smiled at the young man, now composing himself and straightening his grey Imperial uniform. He did look a bit ridiculous with the cap starting to slide down his head. Unlike the first few weeks, the trainees were now allowed to wear the grey soft caps, and it was a far sight better than wearing those ridiculous over-sized helmets he had so detested. Greg clapped the young man on the shoulder, who eagerly led him to the central bulletin board.

The central bulletin board wasn't so much a board, as it was a large monitor embedded into the wall. On the bulletin board, information constantly shifted and scrolled in various windows. Greg quickly isolated the window with the information he sought. He was indeed to be assigned to the _Dominion_, and he saw that the ship class was a _dreadnought_. Greg found himself visualizing the vessel. He had seen holo-images of a dreadnought before. They were older vessels but formidable enough. He remembered that they held a large crew for their size. They were bulky in appearance and they were not handsome, reminding Greg of a large cigar. Even so, one of them would now become home for Greg.

-------

A week later was the graduation ceremony formation. Greg thought it to be a singularly unimpressive event, not comparable to what he had experienced graduating from advanced individual training as a young soldier on Sol. They received no paper certificate or adornment for their uniform, which remained almost entirely blank, save the Imperial patch on their shoulder. Instead, some long-winded officer gave a fine speech about service to the Empire, and he mentioned the ongoing fight against the Rebellion. The men had to stand at attention in formation while the officer droned on. Some things, it seemed, _never_ changed, _regardless_ of location in the universe. Soon thereafter, the men were sent to the spaceport on shuttles, all at varying times and days. Greg was with one man he had seen in the dining facility once or twice but had never met, when his time for a shuttle to the spaceport arrived. The man had pinched features and liked to keep to himself. Fortunately, the shuttle ride was short in duration, and they boarded a transport. The transport ride was not terribly long, but Greg had time for a short nap and took it.

Greg awoke to a gruff-looking NCO glaring at him. He noted the three belt boxes on the man's uniform and stood up quickly.

"Now that we're all _awake_," the NCO said while glaring at Greg during the last word, "I would like to welcome you to the _Dominion_. This is the finest ship in the Imperial fleet, and you will find that the standards here are tough, and we are _all_ held to them." The NCO covered some basic rules and then led the two men to their berthing area. Greg stowed what little gear he had in his new wall locker, noting that the bunks were three high, and then he was escorted by the NCO to his station in the bridge pit. The controls at his station were familiar enough, and he began routing requests on his terminal.

Toward the end of his shift, Greg let his thoughts drift. He learned that the _Dominion_ was on a patrol in sector somewhat threatened by Rebel elements. Some suspect vessels had already been boarded, but they were false alarms. These Rebels apparently were not born stupid, and they steered clear of the Imperial warship. Greg had noticed a man with red hair looking at him throughout the day, and he was beginning to be annoyed when the man approached him.

"You're Greg, right?" said the man with a low voice.

"Yes, and you are?"

"I am Griff, but that is not important right now. I was told to look out for you."

"Look out for me? What do you mea…"

"Shhhh! Not here; not now. Do you play _Sabaac_?"

"I know of the game and the basic rules, but it isn't a favorite past time for me," replied Greg, keeping his voice low. Here in the pit, the two were not looked on with any suspicion for talking to each other, especially so close the end of their shift.

"Join me and some friends tonight, in recreation room seven."

"Okay," said Greg with some puzzlement, and he was ready to ask Griff some questions, but the man turned and left. A friendly game of sabaac it would be.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The deep-blue glass stretched out for what seemed an eternity, and what passed for a sky shifted with varying colors, mostly composed of a purplish hue. Greg peered down at his feet and they appeared suspended over the glass, beneath which appeared to be nothing at all. How thick was the glass, and why did it have no end? What held it up? Just as quickly as those thoughts flitted through his mind, they vanished like a haze in a lazy breeze. Ahead of him, Greg could see shadows in the distance. They appeared so far away that he couldn't make them out. Every so often he thought he could hear whispers, but he couldn't make out what they said. Greg walked toward one of the shadowy figures, which got larger but strangely no more recognizable. The whispers became louder, even if they were coming from different directions, but Greg could not make out even one word. He looked down and noticed that he was no longer walking, but instead he was gliding over the strange, glass ground. Suddenly, he stopped as though he had hit a wall. The still unrecognizable shadow closed in on him and whispered unintelligibly into Greg's face. One piece of a phrase made it through to him, "It is a lie!"

Without warning, the glass ground and purple canopy of the sky vanished, replaced by hot ash. Greg felt himself sliding down a hole beneath, which led to but more burning ash and a glowing of a great flame. Downward he slid on the ash. He was not burned, but he did feel hotter the further down toward the source of the heat he slid, and all about him he could hear laughter. It wasn't a happy sound, but a twisted and corrupt laughter, filled with darkness.

-------

Greg awoke with a gasp, looking at the bunk above his own. He quickly realized the time and knew it was at least two hours until his time to report for his shift. The _Dominion_was a large ship by crew standards. These older dreadnoughts required a great amount of men to crew, and that was one of the reasons the Empire maintained so relatively few of them, or so he had been told by one of the senior enlisted men. Something else had been eating at Greg too. Several days ago he had lost a Sabaac game to some men he scarcely knew. The man who had invited Greg to attend had been very guarded about what he told Greg. He told Greg that all was not as it appeared. He also gave Greg a name to keep on the lookout for from incoming communication. Griff gave him the name of Ms. Linda Elliott. The name meant nothing to him, but Griff told him to expect communication from her. Greg shrugged in the darkness. Two hours or more of sleep couldn't hurt, and the next day promised to be interesting.

-------

"I granted you some of my time, because I felt you might provide me with something _useful_," said the lieutenant. Greg consciously did not shake his head or change his facial expression. He had just spent the past twenty minutes describing the use of situational templates and basic pattern analysis to the Imperial officer, who seemed either not to get it or just not care.

"Sir, I've laid out here," Greg indicated the paper in front of him, "how we can use this pattern analysis diagram to determine where the Rebels are likely to strike next. All huma… er .. beings, set a pattern of behavior over time, whether they want to or not. As you can see by looking at these circles, we divide our pattern by type of incidence, time period, and we look at all of them over an extended period of time. Look here at the orange dots. Those represent…"

"I _know_ what you said they represent, _crewman_, and you're _wasting_ my time. Our computer systems are more than capable of picking out patterns from the Rebels, without the use of your … _drawings_. We have been beating Rebels for some time now without the assistance of outmoded and grossly outdated tools of a _conquered_ race. If you've nothing more valuable to add, then I'll thank you for wasting my time." The lieutenant rose from the table, a sneer of contempt still on his face. Greg wanted to grab the snotty idiot by his collar and smack some of that arrogance out of him. Greg knew all about the analysis systems embedded in the Imperial mainframes, and he was not impressed by what he'd seen. Not once had the computer accounted for instances of resupply, confirmed or suspected caches, or even safe houses (or safe planets in this case). This officer had no clue of how to conduct actual _analysis_. He had no concept of putting on the "red hat" and _thinking_ like the enemy. The enemy got a vote in combat too, but the Empire seemed to think that military might and overwhelming superiority by itself was sufficient to carry the day. Greg winced inwardly – it might _be_ enough, but at unnecessary cost, and the result would be an endless civil war or a simmering but deadly insurgency at best. The pattern analysis wheel might look foolish to the Imperial officer, but at least he could have taken some time to _attempt_ to understand it. Instead, he was wholly dismissive of Greg and anything he had to say.

"I have one more word of advice for you, crewman," said the lieutenant as he turned to face Greg, "Spend less time doodling on scratch paper and pursuing foolishness, and spend more time concentrating on doing what you're here to do." The officer was gone, so Greg did shake his head now. Over 16 thousand men were aboard this ship alone, and that didn't come close to the hundreds of thousands of men on the other ships in the local sector fleet. The computer was very good at tracking combat actions by the Rebels, and it even conducted pretty good analysis on the attacks themselves, scanning for weaknesses in both enemy and friendly systems, but it did little to analyze the overall picture. Realization slapped Greg like a drunken woman. Operational intelligence: From what Greg could see, the Imperial navy simply had no concept of it. Senior officers appeared not to have the extensive staffs that Greg was accustomed to seeing in the US. No dedicated S2 or G2 provided an uncooperative enemy against whom to wargame. Amazingly, the operations section was left to conduct much of the analysis, and what they did provide was spit out by these infernal computers. More amazing still, nobody to whom Greg had spoken concerning his observations seemed to care one way or another. His shift would begin in about one hour, and he intended not to waste any more of it here in this cramped briefing room.

-------

"So, you're a crewman then, " said the man with short brown hair and a slight bit of facial growth. Greg looked up at the man sitting to his left at the bar. He looked down at his drink, really wishing it contained alcohol right now.

"Yes, that's right," said Greg. The man wrinkled his brow at him, which hardly surprised Greg. The man had started a conversation with Greg shortly after he had taken his seat at the bar stool. Alcohol was permitted, but it was rationed, and Greg was saving his ration for later in the week. The man had told Greg he was a stormtrooper.

"Can't place your dialect, friend."

"Sol."

"No kidding! You know, I know of one of my mates who was supposed to pacify that planet," said the stormtrooper. The man was wearing civilian clothes, but he had felt it somehow necessary to strike up a conversation with Greg and had during the course of that conversation revealed to Greg his occupation. Greg was still depressed about his conversation with the lieutenant, so he found this conversation less than stimulating. He gave the stormtrooper a half-smile, wondering why the man looked inebriated when his drink likely contained nothing more in the way of alcohol than did his own. The stormtrooper, Fluun was his name, smiled at Greg.

"You think there's something in my drink that makes me … looser, eh?"

"The thought crossed my mind."

Fluun leaned in closely to Greg. "I got some stuff, or access to some stuff that will help put your mind at ease, or at least let you forget about your hardships for just a little while. As Fluun smiled, Greg was reminded somewhat of a used car salesman.

"… and is this stuff, legal?"

"It's as legal as we _need_it to be," replied the stormtrooper. Greg wrinkled his nose. He had been briefed on different types of contraband, including the penalties for being caught with it. This Fluun would likely want credits for whatever stuff he was offering, and then again he might be trying to set him up. Credits were transferred electronically via data pads, which were undoubtedly tracked by Imperial computer systems. Either way…

"Think I'll pass on it for now, Fluun, but thanks anyway."

"Suit yourself," replied the stormtrooper nonchalantly, as he returned to his drink, "but I can see you have some issues. Greg gave the man a sideways glance. He decided to bite.

"What makes you say that?"

"You look like a man with a lot on his mind. You don't behave like a run-of-the-mill ship crewman. You have the look of a man who thinks he is limiting himself."

"So, you're a shrink now too, Fluun?" The word, "shrink" came out in English, so Greg quickly explained. Fluun lightly laughed and shook his head.

"No, I'm not one of those, but I've been in service of the Emperor a long time, and so I can _detect_ certain things. Why don't you tell me about it, or did you have something pressing to do instead?" Greg thought about it. He had only recently completed his shift.

"Fluun, when is the last time the Empire faced an enemy on par with itself?" The other man appeared baffled by the question.

"The Rebels…"

"No, Fluun – a _real_ and dedicated enemy with a standing military force on par with the Empire; that's what I'm talking about." The man scratched his hair and peered at the far bulkhead.

"Separatists…"

"Clone Wars?" replied Greg.

"Yes. That was it. I wasn't around for it – not in the service of the Empire, but one of my instructors served during that time." He seemed to be recalling something that had taken place long ago, swishing his drink as he furrowed his brow.

"The Jedi were there. Were they military commanders?" The other man glanced sharply at Greg, narrowing his eyes.

"You ask too many questions." Greg was taken aback at the man's sudden change in attitude, but he looked all the part of an off-duty stormtrooper now, and his glare was full of suspicion.

"Sorry I asked. You forget where I'm from." Fluun's visage softened only slightly, but then he smiled weakly and nodded.

"Friend, some things are left better unsaid, and some questions are better unasked. That … war was what made our Empire the ultimate power, and no one can stand up to us now." The older man rose to his feet and turned to leave the bar. He slowed and turned his head, "And you would be _really_ wise not mention those … _sorcerers_again. They're dead now, so let them rest in peace." He strode out of the bar, and Greg was left alone with his drink. Belatedly, he wished he had asked about that "stuff" Fluun had offered.

-------

Griff peered at Greg over his cards, eyeing him with almost a detached interest. The room was mostly dark, save for the low lighting offered by the recreation room, and the droning of a holovid a couple of other crewmen were watching. Greg had acquiesced to playing another round of Sabaac with Griff and his quiet pals, so he had read up on the game. It was a game of chance, much like card games he had known back home. There, he knew only the games of _Solitaire_ and _Heart_. He returned Griff's gaze, who then glanced down at his cards and dealt one.

"So you enjoy chatting with stormtroopers?" Greg blinked at the unexpected question and glanced quickly at Griff and then to the man in the shadows to his right. Like Griff, he appeared interested in his hand of cards, but Greg could feel his eyes through the darkness.

"He talked to me first. Was I supposed to tell him to pound sand?" Griff smiled weakly and leaned back.

"I forget you don't know much about … how things work."

"What do you mean?" returned Greg. The other man chuckled quietly.

"Stormtroopers. It's not a good idea to get involved with them."

"How did you know I was speaking to Fluun anyway?" inquired Greg, an edge of suspicion on his voice.

"So, you are on a first-name basis with him," said Griff with a smile. Seeing Greg open his mouth to protest, he held up his free hand and continued, "It may seem like a big ship to you, Greg. But when one spends multiple years on this bucket, it shrinks. Not a lot goes on that I don't know about … or _find out_ about." The man leaned forward and eyed Greg thoughtfully, "You check your messages?"

"What do you mean?"

"_Messages_ – on your terminal."

"Oh, you mean _email_." Greg recognized the looks of puzzlement and explained what he meant. Griff nodded.

"Might be a good idea to look at your … _email_. Might find some of your old friends missing you. You never know," added Griff indifferently. Greg nodded.

Griff said, "Looks like we'll get an opportunity for some shore leave within the next week or so, so you might want to save up some credits."

Greg studied his hand, and it didn't look strong. He also didn't have much in the way of credits, and who knew what opportunities shore leave would offer. He folded and said goodbye to Griff and his buddies. Greg stopped at the holovid to take a look. Despite the entertainment being depicted in truly stunning 3D, the story didn't appeal to him, so he left the recreation room.

-------

_Dear Greg,_

_It has been a while since we were together in Pensacola, and I would very much like to see you again. I am so happy to see that you're serving in the space navy, but I want to see come back to Earth nice and safe. Mr. Belter asked me to say hello, and Chrissy misses you too. I will be in touch with you!_

_Love,_

_Ms. Elliott_

-------

Greg considered the message. He knew none of the people in the email, but he had been told to expect something from Ms. Elliott. One of the choices included a receipt request, and the message requested one. Greg reached out to select the choice, and then he stopped. Why should he reply at all? Ms. Elliott was probably tied to the resistance on Earth. His reply would necessarily be considered a reinforcement of his commitment. Moreover, it would more than likely soon be followed by instructions. He moved his finger away from the selection. Then again, Griff was the one who had told him of Ms. Elliott. What was his tie-in to this whole thing? Many of the crewmen on the _Dominion _would be eligible for shore leave within the next few weeks. 

_Kothlis_ was supposed to be rife with Rebels, and the _Bothans_ were not entirely supportive of the Empire. Greg knew that was where he would get his shore leave, and he figured that any Rebel sympathizers aboard the _Dominion _would be in contact with insurgents on _Kothlis_ as soon as their boots hit dirt. If one individual on one of many ships could find a way to get a message to Greg, then it wasn't a stretch to imagine what a planet full of Rebel sympathizers might be like. Someone would know the message was delivered. Someone else would probably be able to determine that he had seen it, and then someone else would ask him questions he would not be prepared to answer. With some anger and frustration, Greg shook his head. Why did things have to be so complicated?

Greg made his decision.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Lieutenant General Merdon Voss was deep in thought, and for once his message inbox didn't demand immediate attention; not that his in-box wasn't always full – it was. Like any other officer who had survived more than 30 standard years of military service, General Voss had sufficient foresight to determine what was and what wasn't important enough to warrant his immediate attention. Thankfully, Lieutenant Colonel Meridian was a competent aide and was also a consummate screener of message traffic. Glancing sidelong toward his monitor, General Voss saw only two color-coded messages warranting attention that his able aide felt unable to dispatch at his own level. Voss knew what one of the messages would bring to his attention, for the sender was all too familiar. He shook his head with a wry weariness that bespoke his experience. As a young officer, Voss hadn't been forced to deal with people like this. Sure, the occasional senator would require attention or a briefing, but not individuals like _this_. The crimson-coded message glared from the monitor like a grimace. Only one color was given a higher status, and that was reserved for the Emperor himself. Of course, the Emperor would hardly stoop to acknowledge the Imperial Chief of Intelligence, but his personal secretaries all but spoke for him. No, the message with this particular special color represented that of one of the Emperor's Hands.

As a young major, Voss had been on _Coruscant_ during the Clone Wars, and he recalled the treason of the Jedi that had nearly cost the Emperor his life. Of course, Voss knew much more now than he had known as a major assigned but to one of many joint intelligence centers at that time, but what he now knew of that sordid affair he was smart enough to keep to himself. _Imperial Center_was now the name of this planet, and the Galactic Republic that then Lieutenant Voss had been commissioned to serve was now the Galactic _Empire_. Like many others, Voss still referred to the planet as _Coruscant_. No race had been able to stand before the might of the Galactic Empire, and rebel elements offered only token resistance. Still, something ate at Voss' mind, and he felt that the pulsating red message on his monitor was unlikely to address that concern. It could wait.

The Sol system, and its seemingly insignificant population was a terrific puzzle. Voss knew that the Imperial fleet had discovered some sort of portal to another galaxy nearly thirteen years ago. He knew also that the scout ships that explored that galaxy had found it devoid of life – a completely dead galaxy. Moreover, most planetary systems found within in were devoid of nearly anything of economic value. They had explored that galaxy for nearly a decade and had all but abandoned it, and Voss was certain they would have if not for the inexplicable insistence by the Emperor to continue the effort. The Grand Moffs and Grand Admirals who ran the Joint Staff had shaken their heads in collective bewilderment at such insistence, and they had scaled down reconnaissance efforts to the minimum acceptable effort. Only by happenstance did a probe pick up ancient radio signals while on one of the spirals of that galaxy. At first they had believed it to be nothing more than background noise from any number of natural events that dotted the cosmos. And yet there, in the midst of what was certainly an entire galaxy of dead star systems devoid of even the most crude life forms was a jewel almost perfect for sustaining all kinds of life. That was a little less than five years ago, and the buzz that surrounded the discovery was unreal. One would have thought that the Empire had discovered a vast array of populated star systems ripe for the taking, and yet there was just the one.

The early spies sent to Sol encountered little trouble blending in with the population, which was surprisingly discovered to be human. Voss still scratched his head over that strange discovery. The DNA of the inhabitants of Sol could have been an exact duplicate of the humans in the Galactic Empire. Of special note to Voss and the task force assigned to studying Sol was the fact that the planet was nearly always in a state of warfare with itself to some degree or another. When they first embedded personnel on Sol, one of its empires was in its final death throes, and the other was awash in seemingly unexpected victory. The inhabitants had termed it a, "cold war." A great many religions on the planet served to keep the various cultural groups split apart and at each others' throats. Even so, the remaining empire, calling itself the "United States," appeared bent on spreading its influence over the globe and establishing at least an economic global order.

For five years, Imperial agents had infiltrated the United States at nearly every level, and they had also penetrated many of the lesser governments. So when the time to strike finally arrived, the fall of the planet was swift and relatively bloodless, at least by standards of conquest Voss had before witnessed. Voss knew that some elements in the military had pushed for an immediate invasion upon discovery of Sol, but higher-ranking individuals made the case for patience. The people of the planet had barely toyed with space travel and had not even managed to establish a manned outpost within their own planetary system. While the planet was peppered with thousands of orbiting satellites, with the exception of a very few they were all oriented toward the planet itself.

Voss wrinkled his heavy brows. Why would only one inhabited planet be ensconced deeply and almost undetectably in an otherwise dead galaxy? It didn't make sense. Sol was too perfectly placed in a too perfect solar system, almost as though it was set up that way on purpose. Voss knew some of the theories that were percolating throughout Imperial academia. Some maintained that an ancient race had planted the system in secret, millennia before, and intended for it to remain hidden. Others maintained that it was an ancient colony long ago cut off from the rest of civilization. Still others maintained that life on the planet evolved that way, though that didn't explain how humans nearly identical to his own kind were there.

Voss pursed his lips – all of that was for academics, scholars and scientists to puzzle over. For Voss were the other mysterious matters at hand. He knew what had happened that sent shock waves through Imperial High Command. Of course, those shock waves were undetected by the populace of the Empire, but Voss was deeply enough entrenched into the inner workings of the Empire to be well informed of matters warranting attention. Lord Vader had been dispatched to Sol by the emperor, but reports Voss received is that he never made it. From what Voss had been able to gather through his sources, Vader had collapsed when his ship entered into the dead galaxy containing Sol. Medical droids had barely been able to keep him alive before the commander ordered the ship back into the home galaxy. Once the ship returned, Vader had mysteriously regained his usual vigor and focus, refusing any further medical attention. It was almost impossible for Voss to picture the dark lord in a weakened and helpless state, but his sources were rarely amiss. Then there were the men who had joined the ranks of the Empire and now served in this galaxy.

No more than a handful of those men concerned Voss, but a few had served as officers of Sol's more powerful empire, the United States. Voss knew enough that the indoctrination of and loyalty of those officers to their empire was relatively strong, and alarms were sounded when they seemed to readily drop such allegiance and choose to serve in Imperial ranks. Of further note was the fact that no such officer had held the rank of lieutenant colonel or its equivalent, or above. Many of them had been considered junior officers in their own military structure. Voss knew that the Emperor had summoned at least one of those officers before him. Apparently that meeting had unsettled Vader, who was present at the time, as he was reported to have stormed from the palace in agitation afterward. Not that seeing Vader storming about angrily was uncommon, but even menacing beings like him set certain patterns, and it was uncommon for him to appear so agitated when leaving the presence of the Emperor. _Patterns_– yes, that was what Voss now returned his thoughts to.

One of the young officers had joined the Imperial Navy as an intelligence analyst, and he was now serving on a dreadnought. Voss had men on his extensive staff assigned to tracking of all newly-assigned military members from Sol, but this particular young man's name had popped up more than once. Voss knew that the rebels were trying to gain contact with him, and his agents were fairly certain he was in contact with members of his former command back on Sol. He was not certain of what the young man was attempting to accomplish though, and so far as he could ascertain, the young man was serving without incident aboard his ship. One of Voss' agents had posed as a rebel in an attempt to incite him to treason, but the young man had not taken the bait. Yost was the man's name, and he had attempted to share some information he thought would be valuable with one of the ship's intelligence officers. He was predictably rebuffed. Rarely were promising intelligence officers assigned to minor capital ships.

Voss touched an area of the monitor and slid his finger across it. A photo of Yost smiled out at him, and even from the image the eyes sparkled with intelligence. Voss leaned forward, gazing into the young man's face. Meanwhile the crimson message alert off to the corner of the monitor failed to disappear – Voss would have to deal with it soon. For now though, he shrugged it away – the _Hand_ could wait a little while longer. He leaned down toward a speaker on his desk and flipped a switch.

"Colonel Meridian."

"Yes sir?" returned the disembodied voice.

"Where is Yost right now?" Voss returned. He waited perhaps ten seconds.

"Sir, he's on shore leave. The _Dominion_ is in orbit over _Tatooine_. They're scheduled to continue their patrol in approximately sixteen hours." Voss smiled. That was yet another reason to like Meridian; he was a good aide who constantly tracked what his boss needed, knowing the answer nearly before the question was asked. He stared back at the image of Yost, his hand still poised over the switch.

"Contact the captain of the _Dominion_. I want Yost transferred to _Coruscant_." The pause on the other end made Voss smile yet again. For all his talent, some things Voss said still took his aide off guard.

"Yes sir. I'll get the orders cut. Anything else, sir?"

"No, Colonel. That will do. I will want Yost debriefed shortly after he arrives." Yost flipped the switch before waiting for his aide to reply. He looked into the face of the image of Yost once again. Yost had been adamant that he could offer insight into how the rebels worked, where they would strike, and even a reasonable approximation of when they would strike using some of his own military's analysis tools. The _Dominion's _inexperienced intelligence officer's opinion aside, Voss intended to see if he could garner something useful from this young former officer from Sol. He allowed himself a half smile and motioned away the image of the young man. The message in red all but demanded his attention, so Voss dutifully opened it to see what was so important to this particular Emperor's Hand.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

For all the dinginess and filth spread throughout the area, this could have been nearly any city on Earth. This place was hot too, and if possible even hotter than Greg remembered being in Kuwait. Sand was absolutely everywhere, and the streets were crowded … though not exactly with _people_. Beings of fantastic origin choked the streets of this city, which Greg understood to be far more ancient than any Middle Eastern city back on his home planet. Robots walked about freely, alongside odd-looking creatures wearing clothing of various kinds. Most paid little attention to Greg, for other humans were out and about the city as well. Greg had flirted with the idea of wearing blue jeans and a shirt down to the planet, but his supervisor had advised him against it, so Greg instead sported civilian clothes more likely to be worn by humans native to this area. That did not prevent the occasional strange looks from his fellow humans who colored their glances with suspicion. While it was very unlikely that any of them knew Greg was from Earth, the way in which he carried himself bespoke of a military man – an _Imperial_ military man. Off to his right, Greg saw beings filtering into one of the many squat, sand-colored buildings, and he made his way toward the building.

Odd music floated through the air, and various beings lounged in their own way at filthy booths or tables in the dark room. Computer terminals were scattered throughout the room, and Greg suspected at least one of them was a type of jukebox. Many of the beings were in animated conversation with each other in strange languages that Greg couldn't comprehend, some of them seemingly on the verge of violent action. Greg spotted what appeared to be a bar – some things never changed, regardless of which galaxy in which one found himself. As Greg stepped past closely-packed throngs of strange beings and up to the bar, he saw that the bartender had green skin, dark almost insect-like eyes, a mouth that ended in more of a snout, and two antenna sticking up out of his/her/its head. The bartender was dealing with another customer at the moment, and Greg had an odd feeling, as though he were being watched. He peered to his left to see several beings, including a couple of humans at the bar. Most were in conversation with other beings, others appeared interested only in meditating on their drinks, but one was an older human, and he was staring at Greg. Having been to different countries on Earth while in service to the US Army, Greg knew that staring was not necessarily a rude gesture in some cultures. But this man's stare was somehow different. His grey facial hair and brown hood hid much of his face, but his eyes were penetrating and intelligent. All at once, Greg felt uncomfortable, and he turned to leave.

A guttural noise gushed forth from the throat of a strange reptilian creature that Greg had nearly walked into, and it walked on mostly all four limbs. Whatever the creature had uttered, Greg couldn't recognize the language, and he was pretty sure it wasn't Basic. It appeared ready to pick a fight with Greg, but Greg wasn't armed and he was in no position to properly defend himself in a fight on this alien planet. He recalled that on Earth, soldiers had been briefed never to be alone while on pass in a foreign land. Having a buddy at one's side reduced the tendency for others to be eager to pick fights with you. But nobody on the _Dominion _had wanted to travel to this planet for their downtime. Most had seemed quite content to remain aboard to play Sabaac or waste time in the ship's sparse recreational facilities. Those from the ship who _were_ down here with Greg were mostly the ship's complement of stormtroopers, and they were here for business rather than pleasure. The crewmen Greg had spoken could not believe anyone wanted to travel to the planet, especially with no high-profile races or gambling events taking place. It apparently wasn't known as an ideal vacation spot. The angry being hissed at Greg as he tried to step around it and shot out a hand (or foot - Greg couldn't tell, to block his path. Greg was prepared to punch or kick the thing, when a man in a brown robe stepped to the being and said, "You do not want to fight this young man."

The being seemed to hesitate unexpectedly, and it uttered some more of its guttural language.

"You have pressing matters elsewhere, and you've no time for this," the old man continued in a soft voice.

The creature appeared to remember something, shook its head and exited the bar. Greg looked up. The old man was the same one who had been gazing at him from across the bar. Greg felt even more uncomfortable than before, but he felt obligated to the man now.

"Thanks, friend."

The old man lifted a gray brow and turned in the direction the angry being had exited. He turned to face Greg again. "For what are you thanking me? I simply reminded the dug that he had other, more pressing matters to which to attend." The old man's eyes narrowed on Greg, and he continued, "You are not from these parts." It wasn't a question.

"My name is Greg Yost, and I'm from Ear … uh, I mean I'm from the Sol system."

The old man appeared thoughtful, and he continued, "And are you happy in the service to the Empire?" He added a slight hint of derision to the final word.

"Yes sir. It's strange getting used to traveling through deep space, and … wait, you didn't ask me anything about Sol. Usually, I get a hail of questions about where I'm from."

"Your planet was recently invaded and occupied by the Empire, and it is within another galaxy, is it not?" queried the older man in a matter of fact way.

"Well, yes, but … never mind. You seem to be well-informed." Greg studied the old man. Why had the old man taken an interest in him, and why had he kept him from tangling with that creature with a bad disposition? Greg knew that the Rebels had agents scattered throughout this galaxy, and _Tatooine_ was pretty far from the Imperial seat of power. Was this old man a Rebel agent? Or perhaps the old man was an _Imperial_ agent, sent to keep Greg out of trouble. Greg blinked. No, that didn't make any sense. If the Empire lost one crewman, it would hardly make a dent in their manpower. So then what was this old man's interest?

"Sir, you know my name, but I've not heard yours."

The old man had already turned to leave the establishment and turned his head, and with a weak smile he replied, "You can call me Ben." He continued toward the door and vanished into the throng of beings in the dark room. Greg felt it was wise to take the same course of action, and he too exited the establishment.

Brilliant sunlight stabbed into Greg's eyes as he stepped out of the bar, and all at once he remembered that this was a desert planet. The heat slammed into him with equal force, and Greg found himself wishing he had a baseball cap, or at least some really dark sunglasses. He smiled at himself. That would definitely look out of place here. Studying his chronometer (what the folks in this galaxy called a watch), Greg determined to make his way back to the star port. A few stormtroopers were within the city proper, usually in team-sized elements, but as Greg made his way to his destination, more of them were visible. The alleys were just as choked with beings busily moving from place to place as the streets had been, and this area had a larger proportion of humans. Greg spotted the bay in which one of his ship's transports was docked.

"Halt!" barked the tinny voice of a stormtrooper as Greg approached the door. A stormtrooper on the other side of the door held his weapon at the ready. Greg had his identification ready before the trooper asked for it and handed it to the guard.

"You fellows have to be awfully hot in those things," Greg remarked as he studied the gleaming white armor of the trooper on the right. The trooper didn't respond.

"You may proceed, _crewman_," said the trooper on the left as he handed Greg's identification back to him. Greg noticed that the trooper had laced that last word with some disdain. He smiled anyway as he entered the dock, walking between the two guards clad in white armor.

-------

In the humble abode of Obi Wan Kenobi, rays of one of the twin suns of Tatooine broke a path through the dust-choked air, illuminating a small section of one of the plain walls. Standing off to one side, the image of a man in a brown robe stood, shimmering and translucent. The ghost gazed thoughtfully at an old man, sitting on a bench. The ghost and the old man had been in communication with each other for many years, for long ago Kenobi had learned to communicate with those one with the Force, departed from their physical selves.

"Nothing?" said the ghost.

"No, Master," returned the old man, "I felt … _nothing_. It was as though a hole in the Force existed where the young man stood. It was that … _hole_, that _nothingness_ … that I felt when first I saw him. It is what drew me to him."

"Interesting. Where is the young man from?"

"He is from another galaxy … from a place called Sol."

The shimmering image of a man long dead stood in silent contemplation, stroking his beard. Kenobi looked to the man who had trained him, and then he peered at the wall behind the ghost. Kenobi felt he had good reason to be troubled. He had tried to use the Force in subtle manners when around the young man, but the bubble of nothingness surrounded him and could not be penetrated. What did this mean? The son of Skywalker was in his adolescence even now, and Kenobi knew that his time was near at hand. But _this_… this had not been foreseen at all. An invasion into another galaxy entirely, and from it a being that did not possess any attributes of the Force that Kenobi could detect. The Force seemed to flee from him – to be utterly unable to touch him - almost repelled by him. Kenobi had heard rumors of another being, in his own galaxy, that had that effect. What he saw and felt today was no rumor. Kenobi could only imagine what affect millions of these strange humans from another galaxy might have on the Force. And what of the _Sith_?

-------

"Transfer orders?" queried Greg.

"Yes, to _Imperial Center_," replied the junior officer. It was signed by Lieutenant General Voss no less. The _Dominion _was not due to dock with an Imperial facility for at least three months, but the young officer had learned that they would divert their course to one of the closer outposts within a few days. He eyed the young man before him. What made him so important that an Imperial dreadnought was ordered to divert a preplanned patrol in order to drop him off?

"Coruscant," said Greg.

"No! The name of the planet is _Imperial Center_, and you will refer to it as that, _crewman_," said the junior officer in a stern voice. Greg checked himself. It wasn't unusual, even in Earth history, for powers to rename cities upon overthrowing an old regime. Why should it be any different here?

Later that day, Greg found himself on a terminal. He checked his messages, but only the usual announcements and advertisements made their way into his queue. He contemplated the order he had seen. _Imperial Center_ - why there? Who wanted to see him there, and why? Greg had already begun building ideas for a program that would integrate his pattern analysis tools on his personal terminal. He checked those programs now to make sure he didn't leave anything back on the ship once he departed. Other crewman on the dreadnought had cast him some strange glances, since word had passed that he was being transferred. Transfer after so short a time on a ship was nearly unheard of, so such news spread quickly throughout the ship. Greg entered the berthing area to consolidate his gear and belongings.

"So you're going to _Coruscant_," a voice said from behind Greg. He turned and saw Griff, noticing that the other crewman had uttered the incorrect term for the world.

"Yes, so it would seem."

"We will miss you at the Sabaac games."

"I'm sure you will do fine without me," Greg said with a half smile. Besides, you've got some of my credits to remember me by." The other crewman returned Greg's smile, though it never quite reached his eyes. He then turned and left Greg alone with his belongings.

-------

Voss walked down the corridor toward his office, passing men in gray and black uniforms along the way. Most of them gave him a wide berth, as his rank insignia proclaimed his elevated status within the Imperial Army. Generals weren't so uncommon, especially here on Coruscant (Voss still thought of the planet that way, though he verbally referred to it in the approved manner). Imperial Command was teeming with senior officers, but most knew that Voss was a senior Intelligence officer, and while it wasn't necessarily true, many of them assumed he had dirt on nearly every Imperial officer in the galaxy. Voss smiled inwardly. He preferred that people think that. As he turned to enter his office, Colonel Meridian met him.

"Sir, Crewman Yost is en route to Imperial Center, and his ETA is three hours."

"Very good. Have him in-process and assign him to Section 74B."

"Yes sir," replied his aide, who then resumed his seat and returned his attention to the terminal at his desk. Voss continued into his own office, and the gray door hissed shut behind him. He settled down into his chair and stared at his own terminal. A crimson-colored icon announced that another message requiring his personal attention waited in the queue. Colonel Meridian did not screen those, for they never reached the aide's terminal, so Voss jabbed his finger toward the icon and the message opened. As Voss read the message, he sighed. Others within this puzzle palace knew he was bringing in young Crewman Yost. Others from Sol were on the planet, but Yost was the only one donning an Imperial uniform. It seemed that Yost was now set to meet someone Voss had hoped to avoid altogether.

"I'm getting too old for this," muttered the old officer as he slowly shook his head.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Twigs stung his forehead as they snapped by in the darkness. Ahead of him, Steve Hovey could hear the hurried footfalls of the men ahead of him, and he held his weapon out ahead of him in order to intercept the thin tree limbs that were catapulted toward his face. Steve was as blind as a bat, so he kept his eyes fixed on the twin glowing rectangles ahead of him. The next few steps found Steve sprinting into only inky blackness, as the twin glowing rectangles were not visible. The rectangles belonged to the back of Mike's cap, and for the moment, CPT Zilliox was too far ahead and obscured by the thick vegetation.

"Ow!" muttered Steve as he swatted yet another invisible biting thing that had decided to make his neck into a late-evening snack. Or was it early morning now? Did it really matter? Steve was starting to feel a small onset of panic. Mike's phosphorescent rectangles had not reappeared, and Steve was making so much noise with his own running that he could barely hear the footfalls of the man in front of him. What if he got lost? The men behind him would certainly take a dim view of him as a junior officer … or they might not live to tell about it. He thought about slowing down just enough to catch where the running men supposedly ahead of him were, but then he quickly recalled why they were running.

Earlier in the evening, all had gone perfectly as planned. Imperial outposts throughout this area of central Florida stuck out like sore thumbs. The Imperials seemed to have an affinity for their prefabricated buildings, and Steve's battalion had struck a number of them over the past several weeks. The Imperials were often slow to react, though every once in a while an alert stormtrooper sentry would react in time to take down one or two of the battalion's men before being himself neutralized. But tonight was different. The Imperials had been waiting for them.

Steve's group was the attacking force, while another force had served as a support-by-fire. As usual, reconnaissance had revealed no external positions defending the small Imperial compound. On queue, the mortar team launched its attack into the compound, and suppressive fires arched toward the main gate. Then Steve's group began maneuvering to their own objectives with high explosives in order to breach the plasteel wall. Their explosives had become quite effective over time, especially after some previously successful raids on Imperial outposts and small depots. Just as Steve's group was getting into position, a swarm of Imperial craft dove from the night sky, obliterating the mortar team and creating significant attrition on the element providing supporting fires. Some of the Imperial craft set down and vomited forth swarms of stormtroopers. Unlike the early versions who had stuck out in all white armor, these newer troopers sported camouflage armor that blended in well with the forested terrain. Their shots were deadly accurate, and the battle was short. The signal sounded for retrograde, and the remains of the Steve's battalion were on the run.

Steve grimaced into the inky blackness as he remembered the men of his unit dropping like flies. He recalled some of the stormtroopers firing into the bodies of his men to make sure they remained motionless before pursuing new targets. Steve shook his head. He'd have done the same to them. There were no rules of warfare in this day and age.

"Halt!" came a sharp hissed whisper from in front of Steve. He froze in his tracks. He could see two dimly-glowing rectangles appear and then disappear.

"Captain Zilliox, is that you?" he whispered tentatively while holding his rifle at the ready.

"No, it's Mister Rogers you flipping moron."

"Sorry sir, but you know I don't have nods," replied Steve to the darkness. Only a few in his group had the luxury of night vision goggles, and CPT Zilliox was one of them.

"Get a head count of the men behind you," ordered Mike. Steve dutifully turned to the invisible man behind him, who had for some reason seemed to have much better night vision that he, and without the aid of NVGs. This was going to be a long night. Steve fumbled in his butt pack for a granola bar. Opening it, he greedily chomped the bar into nonexistence. He reached for his canteen, but it was gone.

"Crap!" whispered Steve, "my canteen's gone."

"Here, have a swig from mine," said the voice of Mike. Steve reached into the darkness and found the canteen. It was already open, so he took a drink. The water was warm, but it tasted refreshing all the same. He handed it back into the darkness and thanked Mike. The adrenaline rush had long since worn off, and Steve was really beginning to feel tired. They had been up since 0400 the previous morning, preparing for this operation. How many good soldiers had died? How did the Imperials know they were coming? Was there a mole in their battalion? Had an informer tipped off the Imperials? Whatever the case…

_**CRUMP!**_ A distinctive sound of incoming ordinance shook Steve from his train of thought. The flash of light from the explosion had burned in instant images of the men to his right and left in the forested night. The adrenaline returned in earnest, and Steve was once again on his feet, running into the darkness.

-------

Greg stood in the silent hallway, contemplating the featureless lighting and pondering his latest projects. While he wasn't yet an Imperial officer, he had been afforded the rights and privileges of an Imperial NCO, and he had indoctrinated his section on the tactics, techniques and procedures of counterinsurgency warfare. The Empire was facing a well-organized counterinsurgency throughout the galaxy, but their patterns were now predictable. Greg smiled and shook his head. For a galaxy that had been fighting for countless centuries, the military seemed to know little about insurgency warfare. The tools and doctrine Greg had introduced to his superiors were now seeing relatively widespread use throughout the Empire. Where previously insurgencies had been given all but free reign to fester on planets not completely loyal to the Empire, now they were being surgically rooted out. Not only was the Imperial military being used, but diplomatic, economic, and informational tools were being leveraged in effective ways. The latter tools Greg could not claim credit for, but other senior military officers and politicians from Earth had also added lessons learned to the Imperial databases. Greg was truly glad to see his knowledge being put to good use. Terrorists and insurgents had long hounded the Empire's campaign of bringing peace and stability to the galaxy, but the insurgents were now facing competent counterinsurgency forces. It was only a matter of time before the insurgents either ended their resistance or were themselves ended.

Doors hissing open at the end of the hallway jerked Greg from his thoughts. Two stormtroopers flanked either side of the door with their weapons held at the ready. An imposing man in a long dark-gray tunic strode forth with his hands behind his back. His eyes were covered in such a way that suggested he was blind. The man's apparent blindness appeared to concern him little. Greg noticed that while the man had no sidearm, a cylinder of some sort dangled from his right hip.

"I can see you, human from Sol," announced the man without preamble, "Or rather I should say, I can see where you _should_be but the force shows naught." The man walked directly toward Greg and stood but three inches from his nose. While Greg was tempted to step backward, he did not. The man was quite apparently someone of authority, and Greg had been trained that one remained in the position of attention or parade-rest until told otherwise by superior officers to whom he reported. Greg remained at attention. The man before him had a receding hairline and dark hair flecked with gray. Greg found his own eyes straying toward the inoperable ones of the man before him. The coverings on the man's eyes reminded Greg of the really thin, one-piece sunglasses that had been in style for a short time on Earth.

"What is your name?" demanded the man.

"Sir, my name is Gregory Yost. I currently work in the …"

"I didn't ask you where you worked or what you do," snapped the man. Greg shut his mouth. The man stared blankly at Greg, and his face seemed strained.

"You are _unnatural_, Gregory Yost, and that is not all," said the man. He walked around Greg as he stood at attention. Greg felt most uncomfortable around the man now, but what could he do?

"I am an _Imperial Inquisitor_, Gregory Yost. I have been interested in you for some time now."

Greg swallowed a lump in his throat. He was pretty certain he didn't care for this man's interest in him. He wanted to say something – to ask some questions, but he dared not do so. The imposing man continued to circle him and then came back to face Greg again, only now he was about three feet away. The inquisitor held up a hand and made as if to snap his fingers, without doing so. The man appeared to strain his face somewhat and then sneer.

"Most unnatural indeed; tell me, did you feel anything, Gregory Yost of Sol?"

"No sir, I did not," replied Greg. What was he supposed to feel? The man's sneer only increased, and he raised both of his arms like an orchestra conductor, pointing his fingers toward Greg. Without warning, arcs of lightning shot forth from his fingers, lashing out toward Greg. Strangely, the lightning flowed around Greg and continued in different directions. Greg cried out, despite himself and held his hands up before his face. Within moments the lightning stopped, and the inquisitor lowered his hands his grim smile widening.

"And how do you feel _now_, Gregory Yost?"

Overcoming his initial shock, Greg lowered his hands and resumed the position of attention. He replied, "I'm a bit in shock right now sir, but other than that I'm okay." The man's smile vanished. His face was now filled with a mixture of confusion and anger. He turned to one of the two stormtroopers and motioned with his hand. The hapless stormtrooper yelped as he was jerked to his feet and sent hurdling through the air toward Greg with surprising speed. Greg jumped out of the way just in time to miss the full impact of the flying stormtrooper who fell ingloriously into a lump just off to his side. Greg rubbed his left shoulder where one of the storm trooper's gauntlets had swiped him, and he reached down to help the man to his feet. Just as he finished pulling up the stormtrooper, Greg heard a snap-hiss behind him. He spun around just in time to see the inquisitor hold forth the cylinder that had been attached to his right hip, only now a glowing red beam issued forth from the cylinder, ending just before his face. Greg froze in place.

"I shall look forward to learning more about you, Gregory Yost of Sol," said the inquisitor menacingly. Greg wasn't sure what the red beam of light was for, but he felt reasonably certain it would be harmful if it came in contact with him.

"Yes sir," replied Greg weakly. The inquisitor's beam hissed again and then pulled itself back into the metal cylinder. He reattached it to his hip and turned to exit without another word. The door hissed closed.

The stormtrooper Greg had helped to his feet motioned a hand toward the opposite door and said, "I think that will be all." Greg nodded toward the armored man and turned to exit. He recalled reading accounts of those sorcerers called, "Jedi" during the Clone wars who used glowing swords of plasma and were able to conduct feats of telekinesis. Had that man been one of those? If so, then Greg was confused. Were they not all supposed to be dead now as enemies of the Empire, and certainly not in the employ of the Empire? He had a lot of work still piled up and waiting for him, and it wasn't going to do itself. Greg really hoped not to run into that inquisitor again.

-------

Harry Bertha had served a lot of years in uniform, and these days he'd become accustomed to serving out of uniform. Never during his service in the US Army had Harry questioned his leadership, at least not on a strategic or operational level. In front of his troops, Harry didn't have the luxury of questioning his superiors. Their orders were his orders, plain and simple. Harry shook his head slowly as he studied the latest roster. Thirty-eight men had died in the most recent operation. What passed for battalions and companies these days was but a shadow of former years – before the Empire. They couldn't afford to lose so many, and the impact on the morale of the men remaining was devastating. Harry could see it in their eyes; they were losing hope. What was the point of attacking Imperial outposts and isolated targets? They had countless billions at their disposal, and their ships, if they chose to use them, could obliterate surface targets more effectively than several battalions worth of MLRS or a fleet of B-52 bombers.

Harry stood and walked toward the command post. That was a joke too. This little hut in which he and his staff had holed up in was what passed for a CP. That wasn't so bad, really, since he remembered all to clearly setting up his TAC on the hood of a HMMWV or a next to his command tank. But this was the third CP this week, and the constant tearing down, running, and setting up was wearing on his command staff. They weren't paid or equipped for this anymore, so what supplies and equipment they obtained were from civilians sympathetic to their cause or was raided from Imperial stocks.

Harry opened the old wooden door that separated his own room from the command post. The room sported older telephone models and some older CB radio equipment. Spread around were various code books, lists of contacts, journal logs, and styrofoam coffee cups in a mixture of stages of use. As he entered the room, a younger individual jammed a mug into his hand, and Harry lifted it to his mouth. The coffee was warm. That's about all that could be said in its favor. Harry thanked the young man and headed toward a blond-haired man who was studying a map mounted to one of the shack's walls. Small round stickies were taped to the map in assorted colors. A key off to one side of the map denoted what each color represented. Far too many of the colors represented Imperial outposts. A tiny smattering of green discs denoted US positions. Harry blinked. That wasn't right either; there was no US now, and there were no US forces. They were _insurgents_. The taste of that word in his mouth was bad, so Harry chose not to say it. He referred to his men as _patriots_.

"Sir, good morning," said MAJ Eric Spencer. His hair was much longer now, and his moustache still struck Harry as somehow wrong. Nevertheless, he had been an excellent S3 prior to the Imperial attack on Earth, and he was doing a stellar job now of wearing the XO hat.

"Good morning, Eric," replied Harry, "Anything new overnight?" The question was almost rhetorical, for Harry knew that anything of significance would have resulted in his interrupted sleep – all three and a half hours of it. His commander's critical information requirements (CCIR) were extensive, and few events, especially by the enemy, did not require his attention.

"The attack on IP Number 28 was repulsed, sir," said Eric, motioning toward one of the red discs to their north.

"Casualties?"

"Rich told me the strike force was nearly wiped out, sir." Harry cursed aloud. Rich Holden was the S3 for 3rd Battalion, 78th Infantry. He knew that the battalion S3s kept relatively close contact with each other. Their strike force had consisted of three companies. That was most of the battalion. He knew that LTC Carlos Marcano likely led that operation in person.

"What about Colonel Marcano?"

"No word yet, sir," replied Eric, "But you should also see this." Harry's S3 motioned toward a local newspaper. The headline story bespoke of an insurgency ring broken up and arrested. Harry perused the names listed to see whether or not he recognized any.

"Get me _Lancer Six_on the horn, Eric," said Harry gravely. His S3/XO hurried toward a set of phones and spoke to one of the soldiers manning them. In the old days, contacting one's higher was a simple matter, but these days, there was a lot of work-around involved. The Imperials were all too effective at using communication to ferret out _patriots_ and their supporters.

The sergeant manning the phones turned and said, "Sir, _Lancer Six_ on the line for you." Harry hurried to the phone and picked it up, "The ball was fumbled Mac, and the refs were too crooked to call it."

"Slow down, Doug," came the tinny reply from the headset. They all used fake names and code words now, for to do otherwise was just suicidal. The colonel continued, "What call did the ref make?"

"The team was only sixteen yards from scoring, and the ref called a fumble," replied Harry. Sixteen of the names in that paper were men or women who knew something about his battalion.

"What about a field goal?" inquired _Lancer 6_.

"A field goal?"

"Yeah, it's a bit far out, but he's got the leg. He needs to make the kick."

"We could lose if he misses," replied Harry tentatively.

"We lose if he doesn't kick. See that he gets the shot." The phone went dead. Harry turned and faced the rest of the command center.

"We jump in 30 minutes." He turned to face his communications sergeant, "Send a message to our place kicker. Tell him it's time to try for a field goal. The team is counting on him. The young NCO nodded and began typing on his terminal.

-------

General Voss stared at his young charge from another galaxy. From his screen, he could watch Yost, but Yost was oblivious. He really had expected that inquisitor to kill Yost today, and that would have been a shame. Yost was proving extremely valuable and competent – something all too rare in Voss' recent experience. What would an inquisitor want with him anyway?

Yost had provided a valuable set of tools that programmers were able to turn into effective use. Those tools and the procedures to use them had been beamed throughout the fleet and were being used to devastating effect against rebel forces. Voss knew from his reports that various insurgent groups on Sol had been absolute pains in the neck for the sector commander there. They couldn't just wipe the planet out. It was the only habitable planet they'd discovered in that galaxy. The new tactics and tools were producing fruit there too, but Voss chose to keep such information from Yost. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

He left his perch and sauntered down to the pit where Yost and other men were busily plugging away on monitors. Voss noted with wry amusement that Yost was still somewhat reliant on writing down notes and scribbling on parchment. Those hadn't been easy to come by, but Voss ensured his staff was supplied with what they needed. He saw that Yost was debating the use of one of his HUMINT tools with a lieutenant.

"Sorry to interrupt," said Voss, who was clearly not sorry. Both men stood ramrod straight before him, and the lieutenant said, "Yes sir?"

"Dismissed, lieutenant," said Voss as he eyed the young officer. The lieutenant nodded and promptly disappeared. Yost remained at attention.

"At ease," said Voss. Yost relaxed his posture and placed his hands behind his back. Yes, it would have been extremely unfortunate to lose him.

"How did your meeting go earlier today?" asked Voss. He knew full well how it went. His surveillance had caught nearly a picture-perfect debriefing from one of the stormtroopers who had been present. He had seen all of the things that had been done to his young charge, including the stormtrooper being hurled through the air with the greatest of ease. He saw pain involuntarily come to the face of Yost, as Yost absently reached up to rub his left shoulder.

"It was an interesting meeting, sir. If you don't mind my asking, who was he?"

"It isn't important for you to know his name, and it's probably better that you don't. He's an Imperial Inquisitor, and that is sufficient to know," replied Voss. He recalled the horrible lightning flowing around Yost and the inquisitor later threatening his man with that blasted Jedi weapon. The image angered him, but he was powerless to affect anything concerning inquisitors. His power and reach had very real limits.

"From my reports, you handled yourself well, "said Voss. That was the mother of all understatements – Yost should have been dead by now. Yost smiled weakly and nodded.

"I'll let you get back to work then," said Voss as he turned to head back to his office.

-------

Greg wondered just how much General Yost knew. It was likely quite a bit. He apparently knew that the man with whom Greg had met earlier that day was an inquisitor, and he likely knew his name. Greg sat and stared at his monitor. He toyed with the idea of conducting a search on Imperial Inquisitors, but he thought better of it. Such a move would possibly result in nothing good, and besides, it wasn't that important to know the name of the blind man who shot lightning from his fingers … was it? Greg typed a series of keys that would bring up his email. He was prepared to delete the normal spam that filled his account, but then his fingers froze. One of the emails was from a Ms. Linda Elliott. Greg typed the series of keys to open the message.

_Thanks for the kind thoughts and prayers concerning my uncle. He's doing better now, and his love for football is as healthy as always, even if he can't quite yet get out of bed. I would still love to send you a care package, but sending cookies to Imperial Center is expensive! Keep us in your thoughts, and Jerry says hi._

_Yours truly,_

_Ms. Elliott_

_ps – Uncle Rob says he thinks a field goal will win the next game._

Greg blinked and felt his face flushing. What was he supposed to do now? What _could_ he do? He mentally wished the message into oblivion, but there it remained. His mission orders had changed. In his mind's eye he could yet see the sneer of that sorcerer who called himself an inquisitor.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

A large bipedal mechanism lurched noisily down the road, while the compartment atop two mechanical legs swiveled to the left and right. The troopers inside were unhappy with their assignment, because they knew too well that this stretch of road had become a haven for insurgents bent on causing no end of grief for Imperial troops. They eyed their instruments nervously and strained with their eyes to see through the thick canopy of forest. Their instruments revealed nothing. Their natural vision picked out the various craters that had been blasted into the road. Every so often, they spotted pieces of shattered and scorched remnants of Imperial equipment off the side of the road. The clean-up crews had done a pretty good job of clearing out most of the debris, and engineers conducted road repair. But here, there was little in the way of road repair. Not all of the blasted remnants of vehicles along the side of the road were Imperial in make. The remains of US Army vehicles dotted the landscape as well. Some of those had been used by the very engineers who had come to service the road and found only an untimely death at the hands of the insurgents.

Evening light was slowly transforming into nautical twilight, and the light of a few of the billions of stars and galaxies were beginning to pierce the sky and grace the planetary surface. Imperial detection instruments were good, and during the start of the insurgency they had been very effective at sniffing out ambushes. Additionally, the explosives native to the planet were powerful, but they were often insufficient against the _plasteel_ armor of Imperial combat systems. That was then. Nobody could prove it, but the local Imperial government knew that Rebels had somehow smuggled high-grade shaped explosives and heavy weapons onto the planet, and they were now in use by the insurgency. Similarly, the insurgents were now much better at concealing themselves from Imperial sensors. Only six months earlier, the local insurgencies had been on their heels, seemingly on the verge of defeat. However, over the past few months they had inexplicably regained strength, and had become more deadly.

"I still don't understand why they don't just _waste_ this useless stretch of land," growled the junior of the two troopers. His gaze alternated nervously between the instruments glowing softly before him and the more three-dimensional view of the dark landscape through his periscope. Not so long ago, the forward ports of his Imperial walker would have been pushed open on the bottom, allowing the cool breeze of the evening air to wash over him and offering a limited view of what was in front of the crew compartment. That also was then. Too many walkers had been disabled and their crew killed in the past, and the Imperial maintenance sections had added more armor to the compartments, along with more jamming mechanisms designed to defeat remote-controlled bombs. Reports were that the insurgents possessed some walkers themselves and used them in ambushes and strikes against Imperial checkpoints.

"It's the only planet within this worthless galaxy that's inhabited or inhabitable," returned the senior trooper automatically, "besides, they're just a bunch of rebels. They'll find out they're on the losing side soon enough." Like his counterpart, he too was studying his instruments, looking carefully for anything even vaguely out of the ordinary. They had stopped earlier in the evening to investigate something suspicious. Dismounting wasn't an option – that invited a quick death. Instead, the walkers had been fitted with robotic arms, packed with local sensors and manipulating claws. It was slow and cumbersome work, but it saved manpower. The last stop proved to be the result of a "hoax" bomb. The sophisticated sensors had uncovered three old beer bottles tied together with some green nylon cord and some old chemical lights. Sith only knew what the insurgents sure to be concealed within the surrounding forest were doing while the walker had been stopped for more than 30 minutes investigating what turned out to be garbage.

"I don't care if it's the only rock in this blasted galaxy or not," replied the junior trooper with bitterness, "So far as I'm concerned, we need to ex-filtrate this place, raze it to the ground and terraform it from scratch." The senior trooper was about to reply, when he heard an audible beep, followed by a voice in Basic with a heavy dialect. It came through weakly. The trooper's eyes fell upon a rectangular green box that had been fitted into the already jammed compartment. Glowing green digits on the face of the thing identified a series of numbers in the local language. He knew the communications item was termed as a "SINCGARS," and though he knew that to be an acronym for something, he didn't know what the acronym was, nor did he care to learn. That the thing was in his vehicle in the first place was mildly insulting to him. It was designed by the local military to encode and decode transmissions while rotating through many frequencies per second. It also relied on ancient radio technology, was relatively power hungry for its limited role, and its on-board computer was horribly slow. As a result, the thing beeped and then a voice emanated forth, and the delay due to encryption was noticeable. The trooper knew why the SINGARS radio was in his compartment. It was how Imperial combat vehicles communicated with the vehicles native to Sol that were following his walker at a distance. In the past, such native vehicles were outfitted with Imperial communications suites, but the insurgents had proven to be adept at stripping vehicles of those systems once they had disabled them and eliminated the occupants. The Empire felt it no longer could afford to lose such sensitive equipment to an already dangerous and capable enemy. The trooper reached for a switch above his head to change over to the archaic radio system. Thankfully, Imperial maintenance crews and communications technicians had wired the radio system into the vehicle's communications suite.

"Last calling station, you came in broken and unreadable. Say again," barked the trooper into the air. He knew that the system's computer-controlled microphone would modulate his voice for maximum audible effect, but it was designed for _Imperial_ systems, not the alien radio systems. While still locking his eyes onto various scanning systems, the trooper listened for the expected reply.

"Scout Five Seven, this is Caveman Six," came in a now readable voice after the usual beep, "We have reached Checkpoint two niner four – negative enemy contact." The trooper acknowledged the transmission and then toggled a display in front of him. A map glowed, showing the route on which he and the convoy of vehicles behind him were traveling. A few pecks on the screen revealed an angry glow of red dots which represented historical attacks by insurgents along the route. With the slightest tinge of relief, he saw that his convoy was beyond the most popular ambush sites. The vehicles carried bulk supplies that were destined for smaller Imperial combat outposts. Not so long ago, Imperial shuttles delivered supplies to those isolated locations, but Rebels had not neglected the smuggling of deadly weapon systems that were all too effective at acquiring and destroying airborne craft, and after the Empire had lost a few dozen shuttles, they decided the risk of re-supplying the combat outposts by air was too high for the benefit. Thus, ground convoys to such locations were now the norm. Most such convoys were protected by several Imperial combat vehicles, but this was a small one, so only two modified scout walkers were allocated to provide security. The trooper had been told he could expect air support if needed, but it was not allocated to the mission. Unless he saw craft overhead, the trooper knew that a response by such airborne craft would likely come too late to help him.

"This is crap!" said the junior trooper suddenly. His counterpart turned to him to learn just what the trooper thought was crap.

"What?" he replied uninterestedly, both annoyed and relieved at having his attention momentarily removed from the instruments before him.

"We have the best systems and equipment in the galaxy, and they're all but worthless for finding rebels in places like this," continued the frustrated trooper, "We should be able to see a tick on a _gungar_ with these scopes, but…"

_**WHUMP! **_

The shock wave against the rear of the walker's compartment was barely noticeable, but experience instantly told both troopers from which direction the blast had come, that it was not aimed at them, and had been considerable. Slight sounds that penetrated the up-armored walker also informed the troopers that heavy weapons fire was ringing out behind them.

"Scout Five Seven, Caveman Two Four, the Six has been hit! Damage appears catastrophic! We're taking fire from our three and nine o'clock, returning fire. We've got no PID!" said a disembodied and frantic voice over the SINCGARS radio system after the characteristic beep. The ranking trooper cursed softly to himself and maneuvered his walker toward his six. He scanned his systems and saw vague readings that were most likely insurgents murdering members of his trust. He fired a quick burst from the walker's heavy blasters at the forest edge. He could still see the heavy weapons fire through his visual scope, but much of it originated from the mounted weapon systems of the trapped wheeled vehicles. Unlike the insurgents conducting the ambush, most of the Sol natives in the convoy did not have prior military experience, as their woeful lack of fire discipline and reaction to contact attested.

The senior trooper had been on patrols like this long enough to recognize .50 caliber machine gun tracers, and his instruments confirmed that such fire was also coming from the wood line. The insurgents had waited for his walker to pass by and then sprung their ambush on the wheeled vehicles hauling supplies, equipment and personnel. How many stormtroopers were trapped in those burning vehicles? Not all of them were, for the senior trooper could also see lancing red blaster fire leaping into the forest. At least some of the stormtroopers had dismounted and joined in the fight. He couldn't see their armor, for the stormtroopers had long ago ceased wearing the bright white armor and now sported camouflaged armor that blended in with the terrain.

"Contact, bearing two four three, mark two!" barked the second trooper. As the walker continued lurching toward the gunfire, angry crimson bolts burned forth from its tubes and found marks inside the forest. A small fire now burned lightly within the trees, and the volume of heavy weapons fire was lessening. Small-arms fire from native projectile weapons mixed in with the heavier slug-throwing weapons and red blaster fire, but all of it was now originating from the convoy. The lead trooper called for a cease fire as he and his counterpart busily scanned the forest for signs of further enemy activity. He found none, but scanners picked up about a half dozen dead bodies inside the forest line, and more than 30 were dead within the convoy, along with many more badly injured. He knew from experience that insurgents did not leave behind wounded. They usually killed themselves or were in turn killed if they were too badly injured to escape. Some booby-trapped themselves in hopes of slaughtering more of their foes even in death. Resignedly, the lead trooper conducted a call to his higher headquarters and his counterpart gave the appropriate instructions to the remaining functional vehicles and personnel within the convoy.

Damaged vehicles were completely destroyed in place, and the bodies of the locals found hasty graves along the side of the road. Some bodies were loaded onto wheeled vehicles, but most of those had already been loaded down with supplies and equipment, and were now cross-loading from damaged and destroyed vehicles. Equipment that could not be loaded in the few vehicles remaining was also destroyed in place. Then there were the injured. The lead trooper shook his head in frustration. This isn't what he had signed up for.

-------

A canopy of countless stars shown brightly through the transparency, reminding anyone who viewed them just how insignificant one was in relation to their vast expanse. An older man with hair speckled more with grey than a younger brown peered blankly through the transparency, allowing his eyes to drop to the glowing orb about which his ship orbited. His furrowed brow bespoke the recent setbacks that Imperial troops had been dealt throughout various continents on the planet now reflecting blue light from its large oceans to his vision. He had petitioned to the High Command to raze portions of Sol in order to restore order and quash the various insurgencies, but his requests had been denied. While this had initially been a much sought-after post for Imperial officers, it now had become a place to be avoided.

The massive star destroyer in which the admiral was currently ensconced possessed sufficient weaponry and ordinance in and of itself to reduce the planet at the lower end of his vision to a smoldering ruin, and yet its immensely powerful guns remained mockingly silent. He knew that three other star destroyers and a small host of smaller warships floated in orbit around Sol, and picket ships were scattered throughout the solar system. The multiple-colored squares arranged neatly on his tunic marked him as an admiral, but for now he felt as helpless as a first-year cadet, powerless to exercise any effective authority. His hands were tied, and rumor was that the Emperor himself was instrumental in ensuring the knot was tight. That was only rumor though, and for all his disappointment, the admiral was an Imperial officer. Orders would be obeyed without question, even here on the edge of nowhere.

A soft beep within his room informed the admiral that his attention was needed. He absently checked his chronometer, noting that it was nearly time for his daily update briefing. Suppressing a sigh, the admiral exited his room and made his way to the bridge of the flagship. During his trek, officers, crewmen, and stormtroopers duly stepped aside for him, some coming to the position of attention, and others pausing momentarily and then moving on their way. The admiral paid them little attention as he continued through the corridors. The blast doors to the bridge swished open upon his arrival, and two flanking stormtroopers snapped to attention, with their blasters at port arms.

"Admiral on deck!" shouted a senior crewman who happened to have his eyes on the blast doors when they opened. Other crewman and officers quickly rose to their feet.

"As you were!" replied the admiral as he continued toward the front of the bridge. To either side of him, officers and crewmen in pits resumed their seats and attention to various instruments, scopes and monitors. The vessel's captain, a young man by the name of Rogh from Alderaan, waited at a modified position of attention. He held a small remote in his right hand and stood in front of a large monitor. Several seats were to his front, along with various senior officers including ship captains and senior ground commanders standing in front of the chairs. "Take your seats, gentlemen," said the admiral as he took his own seat at the front of the group.

Captain Rough gestured to another officer, who began to brief the admiral and gathered senior officers on the events of the day. Included were at least three detections of possible smuggling operations.

"Were we able to intercept any of the smugglers?" inquired the admiral.

"Sir, we intercepted one outbound Corellian freighter, but the occupants checked out and we found no contraband. Sources indicated that the ship likely brought in contraband destined for Rebel sympathizers on the planet – possibly explosives and small-arms weapons."

The admiral frowned. "Rebel sympathizers" were what insurgents on Sol were being labeled now. He had held his post for almost two years, and he wasn't sure the label fit. The insurgents seemed to sympathize with nobody, though they were all too willing to take whatever the Rebels could get to them. The Empire had sent in bounty hunters against known insurgent leaders, but most of the bounty hunters did not return, and the few that did catch leaders of the insurgency took their bounty and left, swearing off the practice of their trade upon the surface of Sol. The insurgent leaders provided little of value, even when the interrogation droids got through with them. Part of the problem was that there was no single insurgency down there. There were many different insurgencies and many different goals. The only thing they held in common with each other was a hatred of the Empire. Another challenge was the practice of many of them to operate in cellular groups, so that one cell of individuals was often completely unaware of like cells around them. Such compartmentalization probably limited their effectiveness somewhat, but it also served as an excellent force-protection measure. The Empire had rounded up thousands of people and executed them in response to insurgent violence, but such actions seemed only to provoke the populace further against Imperial rule, and insurgents grew only stronger. They had an uncanny ability to wage an effective information operations campaign against the Empire, blowing Imperial mistakes out of proportion and demonizing even the most benign Imperial efforts to assist the planet's populace.

The Imperial officer providing the brief droned on, covering the numerous attacks against Imperial forces across the planetary surface. No one land mass seemed more or less active than another. Had that been the case, the Empire might have been able to make an example out of a more rebellious population. Reprisals against the populace still continued, and insurgents who were captured were often publicly put to death. The policy seemed to garner little effect though, much to the chagrin of the senior leadership now present. The briefing officer's multiple reports of attacks against Imperial forces down below would have drawn much ire and angry retorts from senior commanders several months ago. But now, most appeared unfazed and almost disinterested in the reports of dead and injured Imperial personnel due to enemy action. It was just part of doing business here. As the younger officer concluded his brief, he opened the floor up to questions.

"We haven't seen much violent activity in certain sections of what are otherwise violent and insurgent-controlled landmasses," said one of the generals in charge of a land mass near what was called Europe.

"Sir, some population centers are less prone to armed resistance than others," said the briefing officer obviously, "but those areas less prone to violent resistance are still subject to non-violent resistance." The admiral silently wondered why the general had bothered to speak. These briefs were depressing and lengthy enough without someone asking stupid questions or pointing out the obvious. Yes, some of the population centers would conduct activities like work stoppages or purposefully produce products with defects instead of violent activity, though such activity was hardly less damaging to Imperial interests on the planet. After a couple more questions and disinterested answers or promises of forthcoming answers, the brief was concluded.

As the gathered senior officers departed the bridge for their various shuttles, the admiral slowly made his way to the enormous view plates of the star destroyer's bridge. At the lower edge of the transparencies, a bright glow of Sol seemed to warm the feet within his boots. A brief smile flashed across the admiral's face as he allowed himself to envision heavy turbolasers biting deeply into the crust and mantle of the accursed planet, withering all life away in righteous fire. Then reality came crushing back down, wiping the smile from his face. No. More of his men would uselessly die there, and for what? Yes, he knew the planet was the only habitable one detected within this galaxy, but why not raze and terraform it, or why not just poison and eliminate the native intelligent population, allow the poison to subside, and then colonize it? He shook his head. That led only to more futile thoughts. The admiral turned his gaze outward, toward the stars. This pathetic population had managed only the very beginnings of space exploration when the Empire had arrived, and now much of that population had access to hyperspace travel that could hurl them to far-flung worlds in a different galaxy altogether. How did they display their gratitude? Again the admiral shook his head and fixed his gaze upon a distant and dim star. He could almost imagine Coruscant in the distance, though he knew the notion to be absurd. Still, one could occasionally afford to daydream, even in a place like this.

-----

"Yes, the report is true. You are slotted for the next academy class," answered the personnel clerk over the intercom. Greg blinked. He had transmitted an application to the_Imperial Military Academy on Raithal _five months prior, but he had been all but assured that he would not be accepted. Raithal Academy was the most prestigious of Imperial military academies that produced Imperial Army officers. Academy administrators and personnel screeners were notorious for weeding out all but those deemed to be most loyal to the Empire. Greg also found out that the academy generally accepted only applicants from core systems or systems closer to the core. Sol definitely did not fit the bill. He had inquired about other commissioning sources, but there appeared to be none. Greg could find no officer candidate school or even a form of reserve officer training corps. From what he understood, that made sense. The Empire wanted its officers firmly vetted and indoctrinated, and an academy wherein the activities of cadets were tightly monitored and controlled would go a long way in ensuring loyalty throughout the officer ranks of the far-flung Empire. Interestingly, the Raithal Academy did not follow a four-year session as he was accustomed to seeing back on Earth, but instead was just one year in duration.

"Thanks, uh, do you have a starting date for the class?" inquired Greg of the speaker on his console. The person on the other end did not respond for a while, and Greg wondered if perhaps he had terminated the connection.

"You will report in twenty-eight standard days," replied the clerk, just as Greg was about to attempt to reestablish communication. He wondered inwardly why such communication did not include video, but then what had just been said registered.

"Twenty-eight days? My commander…"

"Your commander has been informed."

"Uh, ok, I guess. Thanks for the information. Uh, out," said Greg as he pressed a button to terminate the connection. He pondered what he had just learned. Greg had heard the rumor from a fellow intelligence crewman who had offered him congratulations earlier in the day. He had first dismissed the information as a joke, but then another crewman had also congratulated him later in the day. That proved too much of a coincidence.

Greg also pondered the cryptic message he was sure had come from his former boss on Sol. That was nearly eight months prior. It had informed him to act, or so he thought, so he simply forwarded the message to another contact he had been provided. Greg expected follow-on instructions, but they had not yet made their way to his terminal. He had briefly considered revealing the message to his superiors, but then he decided against it. He wasn't yet ready to turn on his own people, though what defined his own people now seemed increasingly vague with each passing day. He could think of nothing in the message that forbade him from attending the Raithal Academy. For the life of him, Greg couldn't figure out what MS. Elliott had meant by a kick winning a football game. He assumed that meant that he was supposed to do something. But other than forwarding the message to the other specified contact, what was it he was supposed to do? Find the Imperial inquisitor and kick him in the nuts? A brief smile washed over Greg's face, and he nearly laughed out loud. He was glad he didn't. Other terminals were still in use, and he would have drawn odd looks.

Greg stared at his terminal. He had made significant progress in programming in counterinsurgency doctrine and tools, and he had provided training to others. He understood that some of those tools were being used to good effect against the terrorists throughout the galaxy, and the Rebels were starting to feel the pinch. It was even rumored that his identity had been leaked to the Rebels, who now sought his untimely demise. Greg chuckled. The thought of being added to a death list simply for entering what he knew into a terminal struck him as absurd. Greg had made some solid acquaintances with some of the analysts with whom he worked, and he would miss spending some of his free time with them. He had enjoyed cruising some of the bars and clubs throughout the city, and there were no shortages of places to visit. He had even dated a couple of women, though none of them struck him as possibilities for long-term commitments, nor did they seem interested in such a prospect. He didn't know if his girlfriend on Sol was still alive after all this time, but he imagined that she had moved on by now, likely assuming the worst of Greg, or perhaps just finding someone else. Greg logged off of his terminal and made his way to his commander's office. As he strode down the hallway outside of the work center, Greg nearly ran headlong into Lieutenant General Voss.

"Uh, pardon me, sir!" said Yost as he snapped to attention. The senior officer stopped and looked at Greg.

"Congratulations on your selection to the academy, Yost," announced the general without preamble. Greg was taken aback and nearly lost his composure. He also almost asked the senior officer for what he was being congratulated. Then he remembered who the senior officer was and what he tended to know.

"Thank you, sir." The general gave Yost a weak smile and then continued on his way. Greg relaxed and then made his way to his quarters. Packing took less time than Greg thought it would. He really didn't have much. Twenty-seven days and a wake-up were all that separated Greg from becoming an Imperial cadet. He wondered what life would be like at the academy and thought about asking an officer about it. No, asking officers about the academy would likely garner little other than sharp replies. Most Imperial officers didn't appear too keen on speaking with enlisted members outside of duty requirements. That struck Greg as a bit sad. As a US officer, he had known a great deal about his own enlisted men, and while he was never friends with them, he was happy to answer any questions they might have had.

Greg changed out of his work clothes and decided to relax in one of the facility's multiple recreational centers. There were female crewmen about, but not very many. Greg had halfway hoped to strike up a casual relationship with one of them, but now that he was slated for the academy, that seemed less of a good idea. As it was, Greg ordered what passed for a beer and settled in to watch a holovid. This particular piece of entertainment depicted the end of the Clone Wars. Greg watched as Jedi turned on their clone troopers, slaughtering them in place with lightning from their fingertips and then turning on helpless, screaming civilians. Truly, these must have been some horrible people. Vaguely, he now wondered if that Imperial inquisitor had once been one of those awful Jedi. Greg involuntarily rubbed his shoulder, where he could feel a small bruise.

-------

Harry Bertha was feeling better. For three nights this week he had got more than six hours of sleep per night. Only two months ago, that would have been unthinkable. He still ordered the movement of his tactical operations center nearly every day, but his team was agile and quick. TOC jumps were so fluid now that their impacts were hardly felt anymore. Not jumping the TOC now seemed unnatural. He had received deliveries of advanced equipment, munitions, weapons, and supplies from higher. He learned that the Rebels had smuggled the stuff to Earth, doling it out to the many insurgencies. They were hurting the Empire's efforts here on the planet. Not that the Empire was going away, but their stay was becoming more miserable by the day.

Harry had long since stopped thinking about why he was fighting. That question was for higher headquarters and people with larger paychecks to answer. For months now, he had even begun receiving salaries for his soldiers and officers, though it was all in cash. The Empire had attempted to eliminate cash and implement their electronic credit system. Some parts of Earth were using the system, but much of the population still wasn't. Cold, hard cash was still accepted pretty much wherever you went in what was once called the United States. The Rebels had made it possible for patriots to strike Imperial interests far and wide, and the Imperials were smarting from such attacks. Official news releases played down patriot attacks, but Harry knew better. He had seen the actual reports, and thanks to successful attacks he was in possession of superior equipment from another galaxy. He understood that similar accounts were reported from other parts of the planet.

Briefly, Harry Bertha wondered why the Empire didn't turn its massive warships loose on his planet. He knew they possessed the ability to unleash hell on the surface, but with the exception of a show of force in the Middle East, Washington D.C., and a select group of cities across the globe, the guns of the giant starships had remained mostly silent. That puzzled Harry. Were he in charge of such ships, he most certainly would have ordered a series of deadly strikes on the planet. He wondered about the competence of the Imperial officers commanding those ships. Oh well, it wasn't _his_ call, and thankfully the Imperials hadn't yet unleashed those ships of theirs.

"Sir!" said a junior officer, poking his head into Harry's small room. Harry studied the kid, for in his mind that's what he was – a kid. The young officer wore civilian clothes like every other patriot, but Harry knew that he was ranked as a second lieutenant. He knew the lad had not attended any form of commissioning program, and yet he was a commissioned officer – for a nation that officially no longer existed. These were indeed strange times.

"Yes, lieutenant?" replied Harry, who simply could not remember the kid's name.

"Sir, you've got a message from Lancer Six." Harry started. He hadn't received a message from Lancer Six in several weeks, though he did send periodic reports. Gone were the clunky radio sets and CBs. The battalion now had extra-galactic communications equipment with unimaginably complex encryption. Harry walked into the communications room. Still present was an HF radio set, but it had not been used in many months, and it served only as a backup if all else failed. Harry walked toward the far end of the room where a small, alien-looking data pad awaited. It wasn't much larger than a calculator, and it reminded him of an over-sized and flattened cell phone with a built-in computer. He looked at the message displayed on the screen.

THE HALF BACK IS IN THE LOCKER ROOM. THE COACH IS SET TO MAKE ONE HELL OF A HALF-TIME SPEECH!

So that was it – Yost was in now. Harry recalled the young lieutenant who had served as his assistant S2. That seemed an eternity ago. He had been a quiet but promising officer, and Harry knew him to be intelligent. He was also loyal. He would need that loyalty now. The right strings had been pulled and the right folks impressed, so now Gregory Yost was set to become an Imperial officer.

Colonel Bertha thought about his own days at the US Military Academy. They had been arduous and full of indoctrination. He had come out with a great sense of honor for his country and a deep sense of duty. Would the Imperial Academy do the same for Yost? Would his loyalty to the US survive? In about a year, they would know. Then again, within a year they all could be dead and nothing more than a fading memory. Harry shrugged and peered over at the watch officer.

Harry knew that the cryptic message had more meaning than just Yost's acceptance to the academy. Other wheels had also been set in motion. Harry recalled speaking to an officer who had visited him about a month and a half prior. The officer had been about Harry's age and was assigned somewhere above what these days passed for a division headquarters. At the time, Harry had just begun to regain some hope that perhaps his own unit would _not_ be wiped out by the Imperials that surrounded him. The officer had told Harry that a plan had been constructed and agreed upon by not only those serving what had once been the United States, but by also powerful elements from other parts of the planet. Harry assumed that had to do with regaining independence for Earth, gaining at least a form of autonomy, or even joining the Rebels fighting the Imperial forces in their own galaxy. The officer had smiled at Harry and said, "You're thinking much too small."

Harry looked up as he caught the scent of an alluring aroma, and he inquired, "How's the coffee this morning, Bill?"

"It's hot, sir."

"Outstanding! Think I'll grab a cup," said Harry with a wry smile.

-------

Gregory Yost stepped off the transport and found himself milling about with a crowd of men, mostly younger than himself. The majority of the young men wore civilian clothes denoting the planets from which they hailed. A small scattering wore grey service uniforms like Greg. He knew that the academy allowed a very small percentage of enlisted men to compete for entrance. The hall at which the men had been deposited was cavernous, and Imperial posters announcing duty, sacrifice, and service to the Empire were scattered throughout the massive hall. Nobody here seemed to be in charge.

Greg was tempted to take charge and get all the civilians into a formation, but then he heard the heavy and synchronized footfalls of Imperial stormtroopers. Greg saw that the element of stormtroopers marched out toward the disorganized crowd, members of which hurried out of the way of the impressive display. Then the stormtroopers split their formation without warning and, continuing to march in unison, turned at sharp angles until they completely surrounded the crowd. At once, all the stormtroopers snapped to attention, their blasters at port arms. The crowd was now almost completely silent.

Loud footfalls of military boots announced the arrival of a few individuals. Greg had to maneuver his way toward the front of the crowd, using his uniform to make it seem he belonged there. He could now see that a high-ranking individual stood in the center of two stormtroopers with distinctive shoulder pauldrins and wicked-looking carbines at the ready. Greg guessed they were the senior officer's personal security detachment.

"Welcome to the Imperial Academy on Raithal!" announced the senior officer, "My name is General Nadine, and I am the Commandant of this academy."

Greg looked around in slight bafflement, because he knew that the voice of the general could not naturally carry in this vast hall. The man apparently had a lapel microphone or something like it. From this distance, Greg couldn't tell.

"You have all come here to seek to serve as officers in the Empire! Many of you will not make it through the rigorous training over the next standard year. Those of you who do will gain the high privilege and responsibility of leading Imperial soldiers and crewmen in battle against the forces of chaos, disruption, and terrorism that threaten daily to upset the peace and order of our mighty Galactic Empire. _Long live Emperor Palpatine!_" With that, the general was finished, and he and his PSD conducted a perfect about face, marching back to wherever they'd come from.

Greg looked about at the hall and the awed mass of civilians within it. This would be interesting.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The dark and menacing figure strode purposefully through the corridors of the massive building, his mind bent only on the upcoming meeting. Over many years, he had become hardened in his attitude, clinging to anger as a small child might cling to a favorite toy. The figure took no notice of others quickly stepping aside as he passed, glancing nervously in his direction – but never for long. Fear is what he sensed all about him as he continued his trek; fear and weakness. He despised both, but he also used both to bring all to heel about him, usually unconsciously. His deep breathing was regulated by the machine that now composed much of what was left of his body, a constant reminder of the grievous injuries he had sustained so many years ago. Most of those injuries would never heal. Ironically, that weakness too stirred fear in those around him. Fear is what all felt for him, save one.

_Master_ – that name he reserved for that one who did not fear him, or at least he did not sense fear from him. _Lord Vader_ strode mechanically toward the chambers to which he had been summoned, now ignoring the terror emanating from those around him and focusing instead on his coming encounter. Too recently he had once again experienced fear himself. When his flagship had crossed into the strange galaxy containing the planet Sol, all strength had left Vader unexpectedly. He had felt a complete absence of the Force, and palpable fear had washed over him like a tidal wave. He had been gripped in weakness. He recalled having summoned only sufficient strength to order the ship back to his own galaxy. Anger over that weakness now rose in him, but he held it in check. He was arriving at his destination.

"What is thy bidding, my master?" Lord Vader uttered as he kneeled before the gnarled old man. Without looking through the vision-enhanced photo-receptors built into his black, plasteel face mask, Vader could sense the figure seated before him. His presence in the Force was hideously strong – as strong as others were weak. His iron will had bent an entire galaxy to his solitary rule, and now he stood as the unopposed emperor of the known universe; _nearly_ unopposed. The rebel faction that had sprung up had grown in strength over the past few years, and Vader had brought his concerns about that rebellion to his master, requesting permission to use the vast resources of the Empire to ruthlessly crush it. _Lord Sidious_ had dismissed Vader's concern, adding that all was proceeding according to plan.

"Arise, Lord Vader," said the old man seated before him. Vader stood and faced his master, the old man's physical appearance belying the immense power at his disposal. The scarred face of his master served as a constant reminder of why the Jedi could not be trusted and had become enemies of the Empire. Vader alone knew the true identity of his master and Sith Lord. All others knew him as _Emperor Palpatine_ – all others save one. The man who had caused the disfigurement of Vader also knew of Palaptine's true identity. His _old_ master had never been accounted for after leaving Vader for dead, and the dark lord felt certain that Kenobi was still somewhere within the vastness of the galaxy, possibly plotting with the rebels, or leading them. Vader allowed the memory of his failure on _Mustafar_ to feed his anger, but he also fleetingly recalled his all too recent fear in that alien galaxy devoid of the Force.

"I sense fear in you, my _apprentice_," said Sidious with a hint of stress on the last word. Vader winced internally though carefully covering his thoughts with his unceasing anger. His master did not use the term, "apprentice" in reference to him often, but when he did so it seemed geared to reinforce Vader's position on the lower end of the Sith, "rule of two." Other thoughts threatened to rise to the surface, but no – not here, and not now. His current master was powerful, and he could all too easily sense Vader's feelings. So Vader continued to feed his anger with painful past memories. He gazed into the eyes of Sidious, and through his _own_ eyes hidden behind his face mask, Vader could sense the man's incredible power. Unlike the weathered and frail remains of the Sith Lord's face, the eyes of Sidious maintained a piercing strength and focus that would not be denied. They alone, among his features, revealed but a hint of the power of which the frail-looking man was capable.

"I have … concerns, my master. The rebel forces…"

"They are of no concern to us," said Sidious dismissively.

"Yes my master, they _are_ weak and pathetic," continued Vader carefully, "but our spies report that they are now involved in the affairs of Sol." Vader knew he did not have to further describe the planet to his master, for Sidious was well aware of the only inhabited planet in that otherwise dead galaxy.

"Yes, I know," replied the old man, "Do you think, Lord Vader, that I have not taken into account every action of the people on that planet?"

Vader pondered what his master said. Sidious surely had access to intelligence and sources to which Vader himself was not privy, and the vast apparatus of Imperial spies and agents throughout the galaxy was more than capable of tracking actions of every individual on a single planet. However, Vader had his doubts of those spies. He had also received reports of the resourcefulness and craftiness of the Sol natives. They seemed to have a natural knack at deceit and intrigue, unmatched by any but the most accomplished bounty hunters within the known galaxy. In short, Vader felt it might not be beyond at least some of the spies assigned to Sol to be duped into reporting that which was not actually the case. It was with some discomfort that Vader recalled that some of the Sol natives had been accepted into Imperial service, and that some were even here on Imperial Center.

"I did not mean to cast doubt on your judgment, my master," said Vader.

"And you would do well to remember your place," added Sidious menacingly, "You do not _like_ that I have allowed members of that planet to join our forces?"

"Your decisions are just and final," said Vader automatically.

"Yes. They are," said Vader's master. He turned his hooded gaze slightly away from Vader and said, "Stop where you are, guard."

Vader felt a slight disturbance in the Force and spun about, his crimson saber alight and at the ready. A mere two meters before him, one of his master's Imperial guards stood at the modified position of attention that the Imperial Guard used in the presence of the Emperor, his force pike in hand. Vader felt rage flash over him, and he prepared to strike down the man who had dared come so close to him in the presence of the Emperor.

"Hold, Lord Vader!" shouted Sidious, with iron in his voice.

Vader's rage did not subside, but his obedience after all these years was all but automatic. He pulled himself out of his fighting stance, though his saber remained aglow and humming. How had he not sensed the approach of this guard? Was he robotic? Vader reached with the Force, and then stopped. This was no droid. He was…

"The member of my Imperial Guard you see before you, is unquestionably _my_ _servant_, but he is also of additional use," said Vader's master from behind him. He cackled softly, filling the great room with mirthless laughter, "You did not sense him," added Sidious. It was not a question.

"No, my master," said Vader warily, still locking his vision on a man he could sense in no other way – save by the absence of what _should_ have been there. The guard clad in red armor stared back at Vader, seemingly unafraid of him, or at least unconcerned, though … its face was hidden beneath a helmet that stared blankly back at Vader. Vader had read multiple reports of how rebels from that planet had fought against impossible odds, seeming not to care whether or not they perished in the process – and other areas contained people who reportedly valued death over life itself. That Vader could not sense this guard through the Force…

"Only now do you begin to see, my apprentice," said Sidious from behind Vader. The Sol native, now a member of the Imperial Guard turned and walked back to his position by the entrance to his master's throne room. Vader assumed his master had given the guard a visual cue. Vader slowly turned to once again face his master, his light saber extinguished and reattached.

"It is not natural, my master," said Vader.

"It is that un-natural characteristic that will _serve_ us, Lord Vader," said Sidious. The Emperor smiled tightly, showing his teeth, and once again his chuckle was entirely without mirth.

-------

Greg gazed into the mirror. That it was not a mirror in the true sense of the word, at least as Greg had remembered it on Sol … Earth (he had to consciously remind himself of the older term) so long ago no longer registered on him. It showed him as others would see him, and Greg had become so accustomed to the imaging device that a natural mirror would now seem odd to him. Peering back at him was the figure of a young man in a crisp Imperial gray uniform. Soon, he would don the rank of an Imperial lieutenant.

Over the past standard year of training on Raithal, Greg had received the basic officers training designated for cadets seeking commissions. The training had been rigorous, discipline had been tight and regimented, and indoctrination had been constant. Greg had memorized a great many Imperial slogans, regulations, and dogma. Through it all, he had worked to remember from where he had come, but doing so had proved difficult. The Empire was indomitable and unstoppable. Such thoughts now came to his mind unbidden, and Greg found it a struggle to push them away.

Only weeks into his training at the academy, Greg had begun to befriend his roommate, who was a native of _Aargau_. The young man's name was Vox Seldon, and he had relatives on the deep core planet with political influence. Greg recalled that Vox had been intelligent and intuitive when speaking to superiors and fellow cadets. About three months into training at the academy, Vox had been dismissed from the academy, for a reason that Greg was unaware.

Vox was replaced by another young man, but the new roommate seemed without personality, preferring to keep to himself. Greg had never really trusted the new man and so did not learn much about him, other than his name. Greg could not even recall the man's name now, but then Greg had never been good with names. He knew that much of the training and indoctrination he had experienced here would last a lifetime.

Absently, Greg studied the image in the "mirror" before him. The man staring back at him seemed strange and out-of-place. His visage was one of confidence, but it also took on a slight tone of arrogance. Greg pushed that down, as he had struggled to do throughout his training. Arrogance got people killed, and Greg knew it. That same arrogance is also what he had so despised about the Imperial officers under whom he had worked during his short enlisted stint in the Imperial navy. He detected the tone of his chronometer's alert. It was time.

-------

Drips of water hollowly sounded in the distance, lightly competing with the low hum of large fans even further away. Those fans moved stale air about the cavernous chambers deep beneath the mountain complex. Many years before, the complex had been constructed at great cost and labor to ensconce high-ranking military and civilian leadership in the event of major combat operations involving strategic nuclear strikes. The overhead lamps were of the older incandescent bulbs that glowed much more dimly than would more modern fluorescent lamps, and certainly less than that of the forms of lighting available from extra-galactic technology, now flooding the planet. The floor of the cavern had been carved or blasted once upon a time and then crafted to a smooth sheen of rock surface, waxed, stripped, and then waxed again by countless enlisted personnel. Like much of the cave itself, the walls were also dimly lit, interrupted only on occasion by the now archaic incandescent lamps hanging from the cavern ceiling.

Deep inside the cavern sat a rectangular table, plain in appearance. Around the table sat a number of men, some older and a few younger. None of the men were from the same place, and in the shadows many more men were armed with an assortment of weapons. Until bidden, those men would remain in the shadows and unseen. The men at the table sat in plain, metal folding chairs, and they eyed each other thoughtfully.

"Are we yet ready for Phase Three?" queried one of the men in _Basic_. All men at the table spoke Basic, as it was the common language throughout the former nations of Earth now. Only two years prior, translators would have been required at a meeting such as this, but now an extraterrestrial conqueror had forced upon them a commonality of tongue. The man who spoke was wearing a denim jacket with a polo shirt beneath. He had a brown moustache flecked with gray and a receding hairline. He normally wore glasses, but he was wearing contact lenses for this meeting. Belying his attire and appearance, the man was a general in the insurgency of his homeland, the former United States. His call-sign prior to, and then after the invasion was, "Lancer Six." Indeed, few outside his immediate command knew what his real name was, and so most referred to him by his call-sign.

The man to the right of Lancer Six pushed a small stack of papers toward him, and Lancer Six picked them up, flipping through them slowly. He then looked up at the assembled group of men and added, "What are your thoughts on this?"

"We have studied the problem extensively, and what was proposed is feasible, but the consequences of failure would be fantastic," said a man across from Lancer Six. He recognized the Brit. The man had once worked at JAC Molesworth, and he had a reputation as a competent spook, so far as reputations in the intelligence community went. If rumors were to be believed, this particular Brit had assisted in engineering some incredibly dangerous, yet successful espionage missions against the former Soviet Union. He now served as one of the high-ranking intelligence officers in the European resistance.

"Why are we slowing attacks in Azerbaijan," demanded a man toward one of the table ends, "When we were just starting to do serious damage to the Imperials?" The man's dialect bespoke his Georgian heritage. Many might have assumed him to be Russian, but Georgians did not like being confused with Russians. Datshi had once served in the Soviet army as a colonel, and shortly after the breakup of the Soviet Union he had become a senior military leader in the newly independent nation of Georgia. Datshi found himself on the winning side of his nation's bloody civil war in 1995, and at the outbreak of the Empire's invasion he had been working behind the scenes to develop military ties with the West. Datshi was an impatient man who demanded results, but he drove himself as hard as he drove others. Since the Imperial invasion, he had led forces throughout the region, spanning from southern Russia to northern Turkey. His prowess and resolve as a fierce fighter and capable leader among the Caucuses was legendary.

"The plan was always to slow fighting at the end of Phase Two, Datshi. You know that," gently chided a man to the opposite end of the table from the fiery Georgian. Boqin had served as a senior politician in the People's Republic of China for over 12 years before the invasion of the Empire. Prior to that, he had served as a mid-level officer in the PRC Army. His skills as both a tactician and a negotiator had made him a perfect fit for a globe-spanning insurgency that was designed to appear sporadic and disorganized. Boqin had a soft spot in his heart for the Georgian on the opposite side of the table. He imagined that had they grown up in the same place and under the same circumstances, they might have become good comrades, though their personalities appeared on the surface to be polar opposites. He smiled lightly as the middle-aged Georgian lowered his steady gaze and slowly shook his head.

"Our key people are in place," said Lancer Six. He added, "Our shaping operations have been ongoing for some time, and I think conditions for the start of the phase are now set." He eyed the men at the table. The three others had not spoken. One man was a bulky Colombian who had been both part of the government and heavily involved in the nation's notorious drug trade. Lancer Six knew that he still was, but his drug-smuggling efforts were now aimed at the other galaxy, and his vast network of smugglers had grown exponentially, garnering ripe business as far as some of the core worlds, and more importantly pouring funds into the resistance. As usual, Javier remained silent. Lancer Six was not familiar with the other two individuals. He knew that one was a German, and the other was an Arab from Syria.

"How soon before we strike?" barked Datshi.

"Patience, my friend," said Moheb, the man from Syria. Lancer Six smiled in spite of himself. Moheb was a quiet man, to such a degree that when he spoke it was usually welcome. In response, the Georgian again lowered his gaze, though not by much.

"We have infiltrated a number of sector fleets, but conditions are not yet set for the 'strike' our Georgian cohort desires," said the Brit whose name still eluded Lancer Six. He continued, "Were we to act too soon, all our efforts would be for naught." Most men at the table gravely nodded, the single lamp above the table creating shadows upon it.

"Our spies have uncovered something else," said the German who had so far remained silent. The other men turned their attention to the man with dark brown hair and a rich, full moustache and beard. The man also sported glasses that seemed too big for his face, though the facial hair diminished that effect.

"What is the something else?" asked the Brit unnecessarily.

"The Empire had developed a powerful new weapon," replied the German. That statement evoked some laughter from the group. What in the Empire's arsenal was _not_ powerful enough to wipe out all humanity on the planet. That the Empire had not chosen to do so did not mean they could not do so. Amid the laughter, the German remained stoic.

"We know that the Imperials have countless kilometer-long starships capable of laying waste to the surface of this planet. Even _here_, we might not survive once their ships' batteries started firing upon the surface," said the Brit.

"This weapon is different," said the German gravely, and he added, "We may be forced to accelerate our plans."

-----

The small figure walked slowly through the thick vegetation, using a short walking stick as he ambled toward the nearby lake. The figure slowly lowered himself on a large root of an ancient tree that partially revealed itself from the soggy ground. His large, pointed ears sagged sideways once he cast his line into the lake, in search of the evening's meal. So thick was the canopy of jungle above him that it was difficult to detect the time of day. But detect it he could.

_Master Yoda_ had spent many years here on _Dagobah_, after he had lost his struggle with Darth Sidious. He was saddened that he and so many other of the Jedi masters had been blinded to the truth for so long – too long.

"Masters! _Bah!_" spat Yoda with disgust. For too long had the Jedi order clung to tradition rather than seeking the truth of the Force, and in the end it had cost them dearly. So many Jedi had perished at once, and many more had been hunted down by the Emperor's pet, Vader. Yoda recalled years before the boy would turn into a monster. Young Skywalker had been angry and afraid.

"I sense much fear in you," he had told the boy. Yoda had not wanted to accept him into the Jedi order, yet others had been convinced, believing him to be the chosen one. Yoda cast his gaze into the water as he felt something nibbling on his line. Using the Force, he guided the creature in the water toward the bait on the end of his line and pulled the hapless creature from its natural dwelling. Into his stew it would go.

Yoda shifted his gaze to the thick canopy above and dimmed his eyes. Many things, you could see through the Force. Through the Force, he had watched young Luke Skywalker, safely upon the sands of _Tatooine_. Vader had not yet detected the presence of the younger Skywalker. Yoda frowned as he turned his attention to the sister. She was on course to fall into the hands of a father who knew her not and would surely show her no mercy. Trigger key events, that would, but with _pain and suffering_ … always with suffering. He turned his gaze back to the water.

Through Yoda's acute sense with the Force, he could feel the Emperor's power growing, and a great conflict was coming, but there was something else. Another presence made itself known, but this presence was not something to which the ancient Jedi was accustomed. It was amiss, somehow wrong, but impact upon events it would. Of that much the old master felt certain.

The old Jedi returned his attention to his small fishing line and hummed to himself. Another lake creature had gained interest in his bait, and Master Yoda allowed himself a light smile. He would dine well tonight.

"My home, this is," muttered the old Jedi to himself.

-------

Greg studied the men before him in the pit. They looked like men one would find in the pit of any Imperial Star Destroyer, but these men had been honed and trained by Greg over the past three months. Greg sported the insignia of an Imperial lieutenant now, and he had quickly impressed his senior officers with his prowess. Most of his regiment consisted of stormtroopers aboard the _ISD Courageous_, but Greg did not sport the black uniform of a stormtrooper officer. He did what he had always done – work as an intelligence officer. The ship's captain had learned of Greg's capabilities and had requested he work on the bridge of the _Courageous_. Greg spent much of his time in the pit going from station to station to analyze data coming in on the various machines. He was pleased to see the programs he had worked on included in the systems on which his enlisted analysts were working. The men seemed to enjoy being challenged to think and recommend courses of action to Greg, though they always distinguished his position as an officer.

Greg had been in space for two months now. Until recently, the _Courageous_ had been patrolling the _Sluis Sector_ with the rest of the sector fleet. Greg's crew had worked in combination with pits from three other ships to successfully stymie an attempted rebel operation in a key Imperial shipyard. From interrogations of captured Bothan spies, Greg's sector fleet then conducted a successful attack on a surprisingly large rebel fleet, leaving few survivors. Greg uncovered various pieces of intelligence that pointed to _Alderaan_ of all places. His superiors had been dubious when he brought it up to them. The planet apparently had powerful allies in the Imperial Senate.

About three weeks ago, the _Courageous_ broke off from its sector fleet and made way to the _Kessel System_. They had remained in-system since that time. Greg stepped out of the pit and walked over to the enormous view-plates of the star destroyer. Though he could not spot them with his naked eye, he knew that the other star destroyers and a plethora of smaller ships were within sensor range of each other. He also knew that all civilian traffic had been re-routed clear of this portion of space over the last two weeks. Every couple of days, a starship would travel too close to the system, only to be met by stern warnings and sometimes warning shots from Imperial ships. Nothing other than such trivial civilian traffic had occurred however. A bright glow to Greg's right drew his attention, and he could see the edge of what he knew to be a cluster of black holes, not that he would have known what they were had he seen them, but other officers had told him of it and referred to it as, "The Maw."

Klaxons throughout the bridge of the _Courageous_ sounded, and Greg scrambled back to the pit.

"Report!" shouted Greg to the pit NCO. The NCO was running from station to station, and he came to attention in front of Greg.

"Sir, we are reading no enemy contacts, but a sizable fleet, and … something else is emerging from the maw."

"Something _else_?" asked Greg, "Can you be more specific?"

"It is _very_ large, sir, and it is accompanying the emerging fleet, though I cannot ascertain as to how." Greg nodded and studied the various terminals. The thing coming out of the maw was definitely huge. That couldn't be right.

Greg scrambled out of the pit and ran up to the view plates of the _Courageous_. The great ship had turned to face the maw, and so the giant conglomeration of black holes was visible, but he could also see the fleet coming forth from it. But there was something else – not a ship, but it _was_ huge. He was not the only officer or enlisted man staring with his draw dropped.

"What _is_ that thing?" exclaimed one of the junior bridge officers in wonderment. From behind him, Greg heard the clearing throat of the ship's commanding officer. The officers turned and snapped to attention.

"_That_ … is now the _ultimate_ power in the universe," said the captain.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

"How certain are you of this?" demanded the Imperial officer as he looked up from the paper the other man had provided. Captain Muzzer had been assigned to occupation duty for nearly two years on this planet in a strange galaxy, and he had long ago lost count of the multiple sources he had gained and lost over that time. Many of the early sources he had gained were unreliable at best, or double-agents at worst, sometimes feeding information that lured his forces into traps. Ironically, many of the double agents had been unwilling accomplices to the insurgents. Captain Muzzer was not the intelligence officer for his regiment, or at least he had not started out as such, but the regiment's original intelligence officer had been inept and had managed to get himself killed shortly after the occupation began. So, the job fell to Muzzer. The man standing before Muzzer was new to him. He sported a red moustache and wore jeans with a polo shirt.

"Yes sir, I am certain," said the man.

"And why should I take any of this at face value?" asked Muzzer.

"I served with the insurgents earlier."

"And?"

"I had inside information on the workings of the insurgency, and until recently I had fairly regular contact with a couple of persons still working within it," replied the man.

"What made you turn traitor to them?" asked Muzzer with distaste. The man's face darkened at the mention of the term, but he quickly recovered. Muzzer had never liked turncoats, even if they had once fought for the wrong side. The problem with turncoats is that they were generally unreliable, at least in Muzzer's experience.

"They betrayed me," replied the man bluntly.

"Oh, how so?"

"I was to take command of a battalion – or what passes for one these days, and my command opportunity was given to a lesser man," replied the man with bitterness. Muzzer pondered the man's story. If he were on the level and truly believed he had been scorned, it might be enough to turn him against his former friends. Such tales abounded in his own galaxy.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Mike Zilliox"

-------

William Dudley leaned back in the small chair, and he took a drag from his cigarette. It was a nasty habit, he knew, and he had not always had it. He never let his subordinates see him smoke, and few of his contemporaries knew of his habit. Closing his eyes, he recalled the time when he would not have considered smoking one of the things – could not. Absently, he reached up with his left hand to rub the graying hair of his once-brown beard. That too was new to him, but it was simultaneously familiar. William allowed himself to be carried back in time. Many years he had served in the US Army, first as an enlisted man, and NCO, and then as an officer. But then, his service had not always been to the United States. William recalled a time, long before, when he had gone by a different name altogether. He had gone by his current name for so long, that it was difficult at times to remember that he had once had the other identity. He opened his eyes and allowed himself a glance at the walls. Only three years prior, his office would have been filled with memorabilia from his service in the US Army, including cased colors of the units he had commanded, photographs commemorating moments of achievement, and paintings of battles from long ago given to him as gifts. The room he now used as an office was in the corner of an old, abandoned warehouse. In fact, other than the office he was using, the warehouse had few persons in it, on the surface anyway. Beneath a couple of well-concealed trap-doors were a number of rooms containing a command center served as a key command and control hub for resistance fighters in what was once the United States, portions of Canada, and parts of northern Mexico. His own office was dingy, and a dust shadow in the shape of laptop computer that had recently been in use and then removed was all that attested to the use of the space. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and extinguished it in a dark-brown ashtray made of glass. It joined a dozen or so cigarette butts far older than his own that had undoubtedly been smoked by men or women who sat in that space when the warehouse was serving its original function. Judging by the furniture in the old office, William guessed the office had last been used sometime in the late 70's. William never smoked around others, and only a handful of men knew that he had the habit at all. He looked at the gray light forcing its way through the lone office window that had not likely seen a cleaning towel in at least a decade, and William let his thoughts drift to a past, a time before even service in the US Army. He allowed himself to be taken back more than 30 local years. He saw a building … a grand building, in the middle of a giant city – one that consumed an entire planet. It was a building of training, of refuge, of something he had once known as the Force…

-------

Almost 30 years prior to the invasion of Earth, a young man who would someday call himself William strolled through a vast room, not that it was much larger than the other larger rooms in the building, but it contained the recorded knowledge of thousands of years. The young man was called a Padawan learner by others in the building, for this was the _Jedi Temple_ on the great planet of _Coruscant_, and the room in which he found himself contained the _Jedi Archives_. The young man was an avid fanatic of history and found much enjoyment in reading of past exploits of the Jedi. He had recently read of the battles in the Sith War, soaking in stories and accounts of massive fleets slinging death through the vacuum of space at both other fleets and hapless planets. Men who had ironically originated from earlier Jedi had set forth to become conquerors of the known galaxy, bending all to their iron will, all in service to the Dark Side of the Force. Though he knew the outcome academically, recalling the stories and testimonies of the time allowed him to see mistakes made, lessons available, and lessons ignored by both sides of the conflict. Little did he know that such insights would aid him many years later.

"Young Padawan," said an older lady. The young man looked up to see the librarian smiling kindly at him. On the side of her robe, he spotted an attached light saber. She was indeed a Jedi as well, though the young man doubted it had seen use in a very long time. She was _Jocasta Nu_, the Chief Librarian of the Jedi Archives.

"Master, I thank you for the use of the archives. I have learned much about the past, and the more I delve into it, the more I desire to learn more," said the young man.

"History is like that, young Bel Shadar," said Jocasta Nu, "It is replete with lessons and warnings, and its voices yet call out to us long after their owners have gone silent."

Bel Shadar was young, but he knew the trials for knighthood were but a few years away. He walked out of the great library and found his way to a giant room that contained what appeared to be natural fountains and many trees. He knew the fountain was not natural but had been carefully constructed a long time ago. Bel Shadar sat upon one of the stones, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes. The soft gurgling of the water often served to sooth him, and so he let his thoughts drift. Not all the thoughts were pleasant. Rumors of senatorial corruption had reached his ears, even here in the Jedi Temple. _Chancellor Palpatine_ was in office now, and he had become a powerful and stabilizing force. Even so, a strange uneasiness seemed to blanket itself over the Force. Bel Shadar had discussed it with a couple of Jedi Masters, but they had said they sensed nothing amiss. He pointed out the departure of _Count Duku_ from the Jedi order only a few years prior, but one Jedi Master said that while it was certainly regrettable, it was not unprecedented. Now, as Bel Shadar allowed his reach into the Force to branch out, he again sensed the uneasiness – the sense that something that was taken for one thing was actually the other. He could never place a finger on what that thing was.

-------

Nearly 25 years before the invasion of Earth, Bel Shadar boarded a Jedi star fighter. As a young Jedi Knight, he had been dispatched on a mission to deal with pirates preying on civilian traffic in the Atrivis Sector. The Jedi intended to enter into negotiations with the pirates in order to make them see reason and end their destructive path. He would rendezvous with three other Jedi star fighters in order to conduct reconnaissance of the system and locate the pirate base of operations. His tiny fighter streaked through the atmosphere and into space, where his ship's hyperspace ring awaited. In concert with the other star fighters that were out of his visual range, Bel Shadar conducted a countdown and then his small ship jumped into hyperspace. As the swirling light of hyperspace played out before him, the young Jedi played through his mind the task and purpose for his mission. They were on a mission strictly of reconnaissance. Their force was certainly too small to survive direct combat with a well-armed enemy. He watched as the chronometer count down, and then the computer sent the command to drop his ship out of hyperspace. The swirling vortex dissolved, and the young Jedi saw that instead of a canopy of stars, a huge distortion in space hung before him. His instruments went dead. Bel Shadar stabbed at the release controls to the hyperspace ring, but they would not engage. The small ship, still attached to the hyperspace ring, was being pulled toward the distortion before him. He used the Force to feel about him, but he detected none of his fellow Jedi. The distortion now filled his vision and looked to consume his ship. He could see the star field on the other side of the distortion, but he had no idea what was causing the distortion or what it would do to the ship. He lost consciousness.

On the outskirts of a solar system, a distortion field emerged in space and vomited forth a small ship, enveloped by a hyperdrive ring. Within it, a man shook his head as though clearing it of cobwebs. He studied his instruments and noted that the strange distortion through which he had passed was now about 100 kilometers behind his ship. His computer reported that all his systems were on-line and functioning. He attempted to use the Force to feel about him. With shock, he realized that he felt nothing. He closed his eyes in order to better concentrate, and still he sensed nothing. Not only could he not sense any living beings, but he could sense nothing at all – even the ship in which he was encapsulated. He was utterly blind to the Force, as though it existed not at all. Panic washed over the young Jedi. He had never experienced such a sensation before, and he now felt naked.

Calming himself, Bel Shadar engaged his ship's instruments, reminding himself that they were not dependent on the Force. He scanned the ship's navigation charts in an effort to determine his location. After a few moments, the ship's navigation systems came up blank. Force or not, not even his ship's navigation system could tell him where he was. It seemed clear he was no longer in the known galaxy. Bel Shadar knew that his _Delta-7 Aethersprite-class light interceptor_ had a state-of-the-art, but limited navigation system and sensor array. The ship had as much jammed into a tiny space as possible, and while it was a capable and advanced craft, its small systems created limitations. Life support was also one such limitation. Bel Shadar felt alarm growing in him again, but he forced it down. He instructed his _R4-P_ droid that was integrated into the ship to work with the ship's computer to scan nearby star systems that were likely to contain habitable planets. The computer came up with a number of candidates, but there were millions of them. He was not sure how many jumps he could make, even with the large hyperdrive ring, prior to running out of fuel. He made a few calculations, and found he had approximately 130,000 light years worth hyper-jumps left. This was going to be a stab in the dark, and he had not even the Force to guide him. After marking his current location in the computer's star chart, he stabbed in his first destination. The computer and droid worked in conjunction to calculate the jump, and then his ship vanished into the void.

More than 26 hours later, the young Jedi was losing hope. The last dozen star systems had proved devoid of any life at all. While he could not use the Force to detect the absence of life within the dead solar systems, his ship's sensors confirmed such in short order. Was he really meant to perish here in the void of deep space, in a galaxy far, far away from his own? Bel Shadar peered at the fuel level of his ship. He was down to only 30,000 light years worth of fuel, so not many chances remained. He peered out of his ship's canopy at the billions of lights before him, packed with unnamed stars and distant galaxies. This was a fool's errand. He knew that but a few jumps remained, and then he was stranded forever, in what appeared to be a dead galaxy. His own death would but add to it. Of the multitude of candidates that remained on his charts, he picked one of the furthest points. It would consume 10,000 light years of what was left of his fuel. He smiled bitterly and shook his head. Sighing, he pressed the command that would send his ship once again into the vortex of hyperspace. When his ship fell out of hyperspace again, his ship's scanners went to work. Shortly, the computer emitted a chime that bespoke something new – life!

The planet closest to the tiny ship was a large gas planet, and his ship's sensors informed him that it was the largest planet in system. The third planet from the star was the one that had indicated life, though his ship was too far from the planet to determine what kind of life was upon the planet's surface. Bel Shadar knew his ship could reach the third planet without hyperdrive, but it would take a prohibitive amount of time, even with its high rate of acceleration. His system detected no communication beams from the planet, nor could they detect planetary sensors. Moreover, he was not sure if the planet would possess fuel for his ship, so he decided to keep the hyperdrive ring attached and perform a short jump close to the small natural satellite orbiting the planet. He directed his ship's embedded droid to make the calculations, and the ship then made the jump.

Off to his right, Bel Shadar saw a dead planetoid hovering in space, half lit by the system's star. He craned his neck to the left, and he caught the glimpse of a planet with blue and white colors intermixed. Bel Shadar studied his scanners and noted the planet had a nearly perfect atmosphere. It was also absolutely teaming with life. Further scans revealed artificial satellites orbiting the planet, but they appeared to be very small. The largest ones were not much larger than his hyperdrive ring, and they appeared to be oriented toward the planet, instead of outward. That confirmed intelligent life on the planet. Sensors also picked up a small, artificial satellite orbiting the dead planetoid. His scanners indicated landing craft and crude vehicles on the surface of the natural satellite, though they were apparently not currently in use. That confirmed that the inhabitants of the planet had achieved at least a minimal form of space travel. His communication suite was still dead, and he received no transmissions from the planet, and nothing indicated that anyone on the planet was aware he was there. Well, if the inhabitants of the planet were not yet aware of him, perhaps they could not detect him. Once again, Bel Shadar reached out with the Force, but all he felt was nothing. He detached his ship from the hyperdrive ring and headed toward the planet.

Upon entering the stratosphere, the ship's sensors detected communication in the form of radio waves. His droid worked in conjunction with the ship's computer in an effort to decipher the communication. His ship was now over the largest of the land masses in the northern hemisphere, and his sensors picked up small atmospheric craft moving to intercept his ship. Someone, or something had detected him. His computer also warned of chemical missiles that were launched on a direct intercept course for his ship. His computer detected that they were being guided by pulses of radio waves, which apparently constituted a form of active sensor for the beings below. His small ship was able to easily out-accelerate the craft that were pursuing him, though the chemical missiles were much faster. Even so, he left it up to his droid to elude the missiles as well. It appeared that the population was not friendly. His droid indicated that it was beginning to make some form of sense of the communications below. Other radio communications were in use too, using different languages. Some were encrypted. The artificial satellites in orbit were being used to bounce the radio communications throughout the surface of the planet. Bel Shadar decided to head for the opposite side of the planet, in order to seek a location less populated by the beings that were targeting his ship.

The atmosphere created excessive drag on his ship, so Bel Shadar maneuvered his ship above the stratosphere. Neither the atmospheric craft or chemical missiles that had been chasing him appeared capable of space flight, though his computer indicated that the local sensors below could still detect his ship. Once he was above the stratosphere, his computer indicated he was no longer being tracked. Bel Shadar decided that he would come in as fast as possible on the opposite side of the planet and then maintain as low an altitude as possible. The trip took mere minutes, absent of the prison of the planet's atmosphere. Artificial debris and satellites orbiting above the stratosphere proved a minor hazard, but his ship's sensors and navigation system were more than adequate to keep him out of harm's way. His ship's sensors found an area on the landmass opposite of where he had first encountered the hostile atmospheric craft, and so he took his ship into as sharp a dive. The atmosphere created sufficient drag to superheat the air in front of and below his ship, though his ship was designed to tolerate much more. To anyone looking up, his ship would likely appear to be a meteorite. That was his desire. Within a few minutes, Bel Shadar leveled off his ship over a dense forest. His sensors indicated minimal radio traffic, and his computer suggested he had not been detected as a ship by any of the local sensor devices that used radio waves. He was only a few dozen meters above the trees. He landed his ship in a clearing. Upon conducting various scans with his sensors, he was certain he had not been detected. Bel Shadar then realized just how exhausted he was. This side of the planet was shrouded in the darkness of night. Knowing that his droid would alert him to any activity outside, he drifted off into sleep.

-------

William Dudley opened his eyes. The office in which he sat had lost none of its dinginess, and light still struggled to work its way through the filthy glass of the window. He recalled that he had spent quite some time living off of what food was available in that forest, using a blaster to kill his food. He had used his droid and computer to intercept local radio waves that turned out to be sources of news and entertainment. He had been initially surprised to discover that the dominant beings on the planet appeared human. Over several months, he used those transmissions to learn the local language and gain a working knowledge of it, discovering that he was in a nation called the United States, and he was in a state called Kentucky. He had been initially very surprised to discover that the dominant species on the planet was like him, human. He had camouflaged his ship as well as he could with local flora. Thankfully, he had arrived in the area during summer months, so immediate survivability was not an issue. Over the next year, he had taken on odd jobs in various smaller cities. He invented a local background for himself and worked diligently to match his dialect with the locals. Forging documents proved not to be difficult, as it was apparently a robust business for those illegally entering the nation from the south. His advantage was that no other nation could possibly have any record of his existence. Approximately a year after landing, he provided instructions to his droid that it was to take the ship back to the hyperdrive ring in orbit around the planet's moon, were the ship discovered. He then enlisted in the US Army. The local year was 1974.

Colonel William Dudley recalled the day of the invasion by the Empire. He had been a brigade commander when they invaded. Unlike most, he quickly ascertained what had taken place, and he recognized what was attacking them, even if the models of craft were unfamiliar. They were beings from his native galaxy and using weapons and equipment with which he was familiar, but they were not forces of the Republic. So, Chancellor Palpatine had become an emperor. Where were the Jedi in all this, not that they could be in any way effective in this dead galaxy? Either way, COL Dudley had quickly eschewed his US Army uniform and gone to ground, eventually commanding in the insurgency. Initially, he had considered revealing himself to what he believed to be his cohorts, but his customary caution overrode that temptation, and he kept his true identity a secret. Within a few months, he learned of a tale about the Jedi violently turning on a massive clone army and subsequently declared enemies of the Republic. Indeed, his choice not to reveal his nature had been a wise one. His plans then branched beyond simple insurgency. He alone on this planet knew the true scope and nature of the enemy they faced. Even he was shocked to learn of the construction of the planetoid-sized battle station. What could they possibly use such a massive battle station for?

Plans were now in place, and what had started as a small insurgency was now extra-galactic. Spies from this planet were scattered throughout the Imperial fleet and ground forces. From those spies, the resistance learned that the Empire had found an anomaly that led to this galaxy some ten years prior. It was allegedly the same distortion that had sucked him into this galaxy, but engineers within the Empire had discovered a means to stabilize it. Initially, they launched multiple probes, and finding no life or planets that were inhabitable, the Empire left only a couple of ships to conduct survey missions of the newly-discovered galaxy. Almost by accident, a deep-space probe had located Earth. That had been few years prior to the invasion.

COL Dudley had belatedly discovered that natives of Earth not only did not possess the Force, but even in his own native galaxy they appeared to have a bubble about them that exuded an absence of the Force, as though they repelled it. He could use that too, and it was now part of their plans. He chuckled to himself, though none but he heard the laugh. Not only did nobody on this planet know of his true identity. Very few now knew of his current one. COL Dudley now had ears everywhere, including in his native galaxy. He would have to soon return, although with his new identity. He wanted to meet members of the rebel alliance. They had provided significant assistance to the resistance on Earth, despite a suffocating Imperial presence now in orbit. Absently, he checked his chronometer … no, it was called a watch. He would depart the galaxy in only a few days, and though it was native to him, nobody there would know him from Adam.

-------

Harry Bertha walked toward the sunset, though he was in no particular hurry. The central Florida breeze was just a little chilly. It was early December, and a few Christmas decorations had sprung up in various shop windows. For a long time now, he had varied his routes in order to evade detection by Imperial (and local) authorities. His gait bespoke an older man with little on him and very little care, but grizzled and perhaps slightly dangerous. He wore an old, stained boater's hat, worn and torn in various locations, slouched down low over his eyes. Three days of growth sprouted throughout his face, and a cheap cigar jutted from the corner of his mouth, though unlit, and his dark hair was just above shoulder-length, tipped in places with gray. His slacks were a bit too large for him, and they were frayed and dirty in places. He wore an old button-down shirt that was once white but now splotched in various places. His dark-brown overcoat had only a few buttons left, none of which were in use. To the average passerby, he was nobody, not worth the time or effort to engage.

Harry spotted his destination up ahead. An old storefront promised the town's most tasty hamburgers and an ice-cold drink. The store offered hamburgers still, but Harry suspected they had not earned their title of "most tasty" in many years. The inside of the old burger stand sported 1960s vintage furniture and a tile floor that had seen many feet over the years, grime and filth worked into the seams between the tiles. Few went there to eat hamburgers these days, though the old man behind the counter could still make them. Most would sit and drink a little coffee and read newspapers. The store also had an older color television set, mounted in the corner, and it was usually tuned to sports. None of those are what drew Harry. He crossed the street at the corner and shuffled toward the front door of the establishment. His contact was scheduled to meet him at the food counter. As he stepped through the door, Harry spotted another man wearing a blue jacket with "FLORIDA" written in orange lettering across the back. Tipped back on his head was an old tan ball cap with stitched embroidery of an alligator on it, and his face sported a dark goatee and small, circular glasses. As the door opened, the man glanced toward Harry with apparent indifference and then returned to whatever magazine he was reading. Harry took a stool to the man's right and motioned to the old man behind the counter.

"Can I get a Coke?"

"Yes sir," answered the old man, who turned to find a clean glass. Harry glanced toward the man to his left. He fit the description he had been told to expect.

"Who do you think will take it this year?" asked Harry. The man looked up from his magazine, looked briefly at Harry, and then returned to his reading."Go Gators," said the man without enthusiasm.

Harry blinked. That was the signal he had been told to expect. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a non-descript box and set it on the table. Inside the small box was a 3.5 inch floppy disk. Though the advent of Imperial technology rendered such computer storage medium obsolete, many locals still had computers that used disk drives, and Imperials could not be bothered with them. The other man reached out and slid the box in his direction. The old man set the glass of Coke before Harry, and so Harry raised it to his lips to take a drink. He put down the glass and thought to make small talk with the old man, but then something seemed amiss. Harry's vision began to swim. He quickly stood in order to make an exit that was not too obviously rushed, but now dizziness set in, and he sat down again. Blackness rushed to meet him, and Harry slumped down onto the table, and then he slid to the floor, unconscious.

"That was quicker than I thought it would be," said the man who had taken the small box from Harry. He glanced at the glass of Coke in small wonder. The old man behind the counter looked at the stool where Harry had been seated, and if possible now looked even older. He did not like his part in this, but he had little choice. The welfare of his children and grandchildren were of more importance to him than his own life – and certainly that of the man now on his floor, and the Imperials had proved they could be ruthless. From the kitchen behind the old men appeared two other men. The first was wearing Imperial gray and sported the rank of major. He walked around the counter and studied the still form of Harry on the floor.

"He isn't dead," said the officer, "but when he regains consciousness, he may well wish he was." Following the Imperial officer was a man of about the same age, wearing faded blue jeans, a dark-red polo shirt, and a dark-blue windbreaker. He stroked his red mustache and stared down at the limp form of the man on the floor next to the old bar stool. Contempt, mixed with another feeling battled for supremacy of his face, but the former emotion proved stronger. He looked up as four stormtroopers clad in camouflage armor entered the front of the diner. Two of the stormtroopers pulled Harry up by his arms and wrapped his arms around their necks, dragging him through the front door. The two other stormtroopers followed and stood outside a small shuttle that had landed in the street.

"So, that is the man of which we spoke?" inquired the Imperial officer.

"Harry Bertha," replied the other man.

"And you're certain he can get us closer?"

"He knows _Lancer Six_," replied the man, placing a hand in the pocket of his dark-blue windbreaker. Absently, he again stroked his moustache and watched as the shuttle lifted off, trash scattering beneath the repulsorlifts. The man in that shuttle once had his confidence, and he would have died for Harry Bertha. Guilt threatened to surface, but contempt hammered it back down. No. Bertha deserved this, and it wasn't as if the resistance wasn't doomed anyway. Perhaps this would bring the whole business to a faster close. Hadn't enough good men died already? A tight smile formed itself upon the face of Michael Zilliox.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

The house was large, or so it had always seemed to Greg. There were two floors to the split-level home, and a staircase toward the front of the house connected the two floors. Of course, you could also enter the either floor of the house from the lake-side, either through the doors on the bottom floor, or by ascending the wrought-iron, spiral staircase to the upper floor. The lower floor sported three small bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small laundry and storage room. Anchoring the lower floor was a living room, identical to the one just above it. The upper floor contained a master bedroom, another bedroom converted from a small garage, a large bathroom, a small dining room and kitchen, a hallway, all anchored by a living room that had not seen use for many years.

The upstairs living room was often referred to as, "the museum," and it contained older furniture and a stack of _Life_ magazines dating from 1940. Hanging from the ceiling of the upper living room was a lamp on an ornate chain that contained flickering neon bulbs designed to look like flames on a candle. The room was never occupied, and it was sealed off by a sliding glass door. Even the vents from the home's central air conditioning system were closed and taped shut. Coincidentally, its old furniture had collected years of dust, and the remains of long-dead wasps and spiders were scattered on the carpet, beneath long and worn curtains that stood sentry between the tall windows and the sunlight outside. The windows of the living room were arrayed in a long and gentle convex curve, designed to remind one of the bridge of a ship, and a long-silent fireplace constructed of ornate stones faced those windows from the opposite side of the room. Upon one wall of the room was a small, decorative convex mirror, coated with years of dust. On the opposite wall hung a painting of a stern-faced man, staring blankly over the room as if in silent condemnation of how poorly it was maintained.

Directly below that living room, another living room nearly identical to it saw regular use, usually as a thoroughfare to the yard outside that sloped gently down to a seawall and then a large lake. Unlike the living room above it, this room had a small television set and an array of small speakers connected to a high-fidelity stereo system. It also contained casual furniture that saw use from time to time by the home's occupants. A dumb-waiter, built into the wall next to the fireplace, connected to the unused living room above, thought it had not been in service for many years. Mounted above the entrance from the hallway to the lower living room was a large bass fish that had been caught out in the lake long ago. On the far wall was mounted a small bookcase that contained dust-coated books long unread. Unlike the room above it, this living room had many of its curtains drawn open, providing a stunning view of the beautiful lake outside. Long florescent light fixtures had been added to the lower ceiling of the downstairs living room in order to provide sufficient lighting at night or when the curtains were drawn shut.

Into the lower living room, Greg strolled, glancing at the fireplace that was identical to the one in the room above him. It now looked larger than he remembered. In fact, it looked large enough for him to walk into while standing up, opening up into the room in a foreboding manner. Greg averted his gaze and turned to look at the lake outside. The sky was filled with dark and swirling clouds, and the trees outside swayed back and forth in a powerful wind. He looked at the lake, and it appeared to be higher than he remembered and it was visibly rising. As Greg watched, the lake overran the seawall and crept up the grass of the yard, angry wind-whipped white-caps further out upon its surface, eagerly pushing water toward higher ground. Alarmed, Greg walked toward the door to the outside and made sure it was locked. As he reached the door, he noticed the water was now lapping against the long windows of the room, and some was seeping from beneath the door he had just secured. The water continued its relentless rise, bringing pressure on the glass of the door and windows. Greg felt water on the carpet of the living room, and he backed away toward the entrance to the hallway. He saw that the exterior door would not long hold as water formed jets from the seams around its edges, creating miniature showers into the living room. Greg turned toward the opposite side of the room. The fireplace had nearly doubled in size, and a red glow and an unearthly moaning bass emanated from deep inside its bowls. Greg turned toward the hallway to run, and then he tripped, sloshing into the water that was now more than a foot deep inside the living room. The outside door burst open, the lake poured in, and the cold wind whistled.

-------

A quiet alarm, reminiscent of a whistle woke up Lieutenant Gregory Yost, commissioned officer of the Imperial Army. The room he woke up in was dimly lit, as it was programmed to be during sleeping hours, and he saw that his roommate was still sleeping. He quickly silenced the small alarm, which was integrated into a small control panel next to the bed. Greg then slowly sat up on his bunk and peered into the dim room. His wall locker was built into the bulkhead of his room, just next to the control panel, so he stood and placed his palm on the surface. The built-in biometrics device recognized his hand and the door released and slid open. He removed his standard gray Imperial uniform and boots and got dressed. As an Imperial officer, Greg had the privilege of a private bathroom, although shared with his still sleeping roommate, who like Greg was also a lieutenant. Only a short time before, he had worked as a targeting officer on a star destroyer, but orders for a new assignment whisked him away, and he now found himself here.

Greg walked toward the bathroom within the small room, and a sensor Greg could not see detected him and sent a signal to the door, which swished open for him. The bathroom was not dissimilar to those he had seen on the ships of earth, though various fixtures had an alien look to him. He spent the next 15 minutes showering and shaving. Long ago, Greg had foregone shaving cream and razor, in favor of a handheld electric razor that worked much faster than any electric razor native to his home planet, and it left his face smooth. He knew that somehow the device prevented hair from re-sprouting upon his face for up to a week, depending on the settings of the device. He had it set for three standard days. Otherwise he feared he might forget to shave.

Greg made his way down a passageway within the ship; as far as ships went, this was not a particularly large one, but it served its primary function well. The _Star Galleon_-class frigate was a relatively small ship, but this particular one had been slightly modified to carry maximum numbers of Imperial personnel, and only a small amount of cargo. While enlisted men were jammed into cramped berthing areas like sardines, junior officers like him were assigned smaller rooms that accommodated two men, and sported slightly better facilities. The few senior officers aboard were assigned their own staterooms with everything they could want, including workspaces with terminals. Greg had no such terminal in the room he shared with the other lieutenant, so he headed to one of the wardrooms set aside for officers. After grabbing some quick breakfast, Greg entered the room adjacent to the wardroom that had various terminals built into small workspaces. He used his rank cylinder to activate one of the unused terminals, and it provided a basic greeting, acknowledging his rank and position in the Imperial Army. He knew the terminal confirmed his identity with a retinal scan, though he could not see where the scanner was. Greg noticed early on that Imperial terminals tended for forego flashy graphics that he was certain the computers were more than capable of. They were plain and straight-forward devices that used text, and little else. Greg chuckled to himself, thinking that the terminal could have been mistaken for an old _MS-DOS_ computer, except for the couple of high-resolution graphics toward the top of the screen, and of course his ability to interact directly with the screen itself. Greg scanned the messages waiting for him in his account. Most were meaningless: There were some congratulatory messages, wishing him luck as an Imperial officer, he saw a couple of messages from cohorts he had met over the past couple of years, and there were the usual advertisements that somehow made their way into his message account. He spotted a message containing assignment instructions. Ironically, he was heading back to Imperial Center to work under General Voss again, although this time as an officer. Greg did not recall department to which he was being assigned from the time he was last there, though its label clearly bespoke its purpose: _Counterinsurgency Task Force_.

Greg left the room containing workstations and walked down the passageway to one of the few viewports available on the small ship. From his vantage point on the port side of the ship, he could not see any other ships. That was logical, since the ship was in hyperspace. Only the strange, white vortex of hyperspace appeared outside the window. Though he could not see them, Greg knew that his ship was being escorted by at least one star destroyer and a couple of smaller frigates.

Greg had read multiple reports, suggesting that the rebel fleet was growing stronger by the day, and he had even heard rumors that their spies had managed to get their hands on the plans for the giant space station he had seen little more than a month ago. That wasn't good. Greg did not know if the mammoth space station possessed any significant weaknesses, but if it did then detailed plans for it would certainly assist enemy analysts in locating them. Were he in charge, Greg knew that his top priority would be to recover such plans as quickly as possible, before enemy analysts could study them in detail. He found himself thankful that such a task did not fall to him.

Greg glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. They had a few hours yet before his ship and its escorts would reach orbit of Imperial Center. He yawned as he gazed into the hypnotic light show that was hyperspace. Turning toward his small stateroom, he decided that he could afford a little more sleep.

-------

The air was filled with fine dust and the sounds of competing calls to prayer in Arabic, over loudspeakers on tops of the many mosques of the city. In all directions, men clad in white and tan _dishdashas_ and various forms of traditional Arabic head-dress crowded the sidewalks of the city. Other of the brown-skinned natives of the area could be seen wearing clothing more common to the so-called Western nations, but those in traditional Arabic dress were more common. There were no shortages of wheeled vehicles on the streets, and luxury speeders that used repulserlifts instead of tires were becoming a more common site. Less common, and nearly always in the company of a man were the black-clad shapes that contained women. Throughout the city, portraits of King Fahd, the monarch of Saudi Arabia, stared benevolently down at all who passed under his gaze. It was late in the afternoon in July, so much of the native population ventured out to conduct business or meet with each other in the relative cool of the day. Nearby thermometers indicated a temperature of around 46 degrees, centigrade. This was the city of _Mecca_, and it was considered by most of the local inhabitants to be the most holy city in the world.

Fluun had grown to hate the city, along with its inhabitants. He recalled fond memories of policing and occupation duties in his native galaxy. Most of the time, the mere presence of stormtroopers was sufficient to prevent dissent and keep order. On the worlds of his native galaxy, stormtroopers were given a wide berth, and civilians moved quickly out of their way. That was not the case here. Fluun walked down the sidewalk of the city toward the structure know as the _Masjid al-Haram_, which supposedly contained structures built by religious men thousands of years ago.

During the early stages of the invasion, Fluun knew that Imperial forces had attempted to occupy the _Masjid al-Haram_, but they had been met with mass suicidal attacks by countless locals. While the attacks had cost untold thousands of local casualties, they had also effectively wiped out nearly half of a legion of Imperial stormtroopers. As a result, the local Imperial authorities had decided to pull forces out of the structure. Even so, stormtroopers often came under attack throughout the city, and their scattered garrisons were not immune either. One garrison had been breached by multiple vehicles laden with high-explosives. Dozens of locals wearing suicide explosive vests had then swarmed the garrison, killing many off-duty and on-duty stormtroopers. As a result of that attack, tall reinforced concrete barriers had been erected around the remaining garrisons in an attempt to prevent such an enemy tactic from meeting with success in the future.

Like his fellow stormtroopers, Fluun's armor had upon it a localized pattern that blended him in with the city scenery and desert colors. He had seen images of soldiers from the West who had invaded a land mass to the north, about a decade ago. They had worn patterns on their fabric uniforms that reminded him of the pattern his own armor now sported. The stifling heat taxed his armor's cooling systems and more quickly drained the power cells, so squads could not operate as long without conducting preventative maintenance, checks and services, as they could in other, less harsh environments.

The armor the troopers used here was also strengthened against explosive blasts, or so Fluun had been informed. He was dubious. Too often, he had seen evidence of troopers ripped apart by the powerful explosives used by the local insurgents. In the first year of occupation, Imperial authorities had taken draconian measures to reduce the level of violence, including rounding up and mowing down hundreds of locals. Those actions had done nothing to reduce the level of violence however, and if anything it had increased. According to what Fluun read in reports, the indigenous population was tribal in nature, and they were easily drawn into bloody shame-honor cycles of revenge and retaliation.

Fluun conducted a quick check of his squad through his visor HUD and internal communication suite. None of the locals would hear him speak, but each of his troopers would. Fluun was among the few Jango Fett clones in his regiment, and very little concerned or frightened him. He had earned numerous accommodations and recommendations over his career, and he enjoyed leading men in hostile environments. This place though … death was everywhere, and often without warning. He absently checked the status of his modified weapon. Unlike the standard blaster carbine to which he was accustomed, this one was modified to quickly disperse death and dismemberment with terrific "knock-down" power. It used much more energy than a standard blaster carbine, and it contained more powerful and larger cells. Suicide bombers running at you might be slowed down by a standard blaster carbine, but this weapon would knock them backward and hopefully burn through both them and their explosives.

The weight of both his weapon and the modified body armor, and body glove in which he was ensconced was a mild annoyance in comparison to the dangers that lurked everywhere. Fluun had personally repulsed well over a dozen attacks in the two standard months he had been assigned to his garrison. In all but one of those attacks, he had lost men under his command. Most of his men consisted either of raw recruits or those not favored by their former commands. Fluun's own assignment had come shortly after his "habit" had been discovered. He chafed inwardly, since he felt his "habit" had in no way degraded his efficiency as a fighting man. Shortly thereafter, Fluun had been assigned to occupation duty on Sol, and he had then drawn the short straw and wound up here of all places.

Dusk was setting in, and the crowds were growing thicker on the streets and sidewalks. Fluun and his squad had grown accustomed to the natives here getting uncomfortably close to them, though they were careful to constantly check each other. Fluun recalled watching one of his troopers fly apart after a passerby attached a "sticky bomb" to the trooper that subsequently detonated with lethal force. The "sticky bomb" was a cleverly-designed, shaped charge, and it had blown out the mid-section of the hapless trooper. The squad had opened fire in all directions, cutting down more than a dozen locals, but they had no way of knowing whether or not they had disposed of the perpetrator.

Fluun could almost sense the palpable anger radiating from the natives around him. Many glances were full of menace, but never for long. A few would look at him blankly, and those were the ones that concerned Fluun the most. Suicide bombers most often had blank stares just prior to lifting their arms in the air, uttering nonsense, and then detonating in a radiating burst of violence.

Fluun knew he had only twenty minutes left on his patrol, and so far all had been quiet. He found himself praying to nameless divine beings that he would get back to his garrison in one piece.

"_Alla'hu Ackbar!"_

Fluun threw himself to the sidewalk upon hearing the dreaded words from his left-rear. Half a second later, the concussion of an explosion picked him up and hurled him against the wall of a nearby building, and he landed with a grunt. Unconsciousness threatened to claim him, but Fluun shook his head and quickly took a knee, barking out orders and instructions to his squad though his intercom system. His men were scattered at least five meters apart, for Fluun knew that a favorite tactic by suicide bombers in the early days had been to take out as many grouped troopers as possible. He accounted for all but two in his squad. Two more were dead – likely killed by the concussion of the bomb, one was missing, and the remaining seven troopers were forming a loose perimeter. Fluun directed them to fire only at stationary targets, or those who were moving toward the troopers. Most of the street lights were out, whether because the darkness was not yet complete, or by design of the attacking force. The natives running away from the scene of carnage did not concern Fluun. With disgust, he noted at least a dozen dead or dying locals that had been victimized by the suicide bomber – the enemy seemed not to care about killing their own.

Fluun worked a rudimentary plan in his mind to locate the missing trooper and then retrograde to his garrison with his squad. As he briefed his squad members on his plan, two of his troopers worked to recover their fallen comrades. Fluun then heard a loud hissing sound, followed by an explosive and ripping sound.

"RPG!" yelled Fluun into his microphone. He watched as one of the troopers bending down to recover a fallen comrade caught an RPG round in the faceplate. A bright-orange fire-ball replaced the trooper's helmet as he fell over backwards, instantly dead. Fluun cursed himself silently. Those RPG warheads had been significantly modified to be more deadly than those of the early days of the war. If the squad stayed here any longer, they were all dead. Projectiles from local slug-throwing weapons glanced off his armor, not penetrating it, but nearly throwing him off-balance. He gave the order, and his men began an organized retrograde. He threw a thermal detonator toward the darkness from which he could detect the enemy firing. Through his visor, he could see their heat signatures, and they did not remain stationary, often ducking behind buildings and ground vehicles, and there were so many of them. Hisses filled the air, as more of the deadly RPGs were launched, and explosions filled the air around Fluun and his troopers. He and what was left of his squad bounded back toward the garrison, which seemed impossibly far away. While one section bounded, the other laid down suppressive fire and threw thermal detonators.

Fluun noted with resignation that he was beginning to receive fire from his flanks as well. A terrific explosion shook the ground to his left, and Fluun saw another of his troopers fly through the air. That was no RPG. That was a much more powerful road-side bomb that had been planted earlier and cleverly concealed. Fluun was down to now just six men, including himself. Nearly half of his squad was lost. As he took a knee to aim at one of the advancing enemy fighters, bright-red bolts lanced from behind him and spat forth death at the advancing natives. Through his visor, he watched in grim satisfaction as four of the enemy heat signatures were torn apart by the heavy blaster bolts. He turned and saw an up-armored Imperial scout walker lurching in their direction. Fluun ordered his diminished squad to fall behind the walker and continue toward the garrison. He looked at the garrison and saw bright flashes around and in the compound – it was receiving indirect fire, likely from local mortars within the city. Loud explosions attested to multiple RPG rounds impacting against the Imperial walker, as it returned angry fire toward the enemy fighters attacking with rockets and slug-throwers, from the darkness.

From within the garrison to which Fluun and his squad was fleeing leapt return indirect fire toward the platforms from which enemy fire had originated. Though he could not hear them, Fluun knew those warheads were finding targets somewhere within the city. With bitterness, Fluun knew they would destroy only abandoned launchers, likely set to crude timers. Unfortunately, the enemy wasn't stupid enough to hang around and eat counter-fire.

Fluun and his squad finally made it past the large concrete walls and into the relative safety of the garrison. He could hear the barking of the garrison's automated and remote-controlled weapon systems as they returned fire to an enemy that seemed impervious to losses. Only once in the garrison, did Fluun notice that his right leg was bleeding heavily. Shrapnel from one of the many explosions had found its way underneath the body armor and ripped apart the skin and underlying tissue, just above his knee. He shrugged off the wound and checked on his men. Outside, the sounds of multiple slug-throwers, explosions and Imperial weapons continued unabated.

"Sith take this accursed place!" spat the squad leader in impotent rage.

-------

The admiral sat at the workspace within his stateroom and intently studied his monitor, seeking the key piece of information that would allow him the freedom to do what he had wanted for so long. Most of the messages were mundane trash, even after his aide had filtered out the minutia. With deep anger, he recalled what he had witnessed two days earlier. An insurgent video had surfaced on the internet that had prompted the admiral to beam his transmission to the Imperial High Command. He felt that his request was reasonable. With irritation, the admiral gave up his search for the elusive message. He stood and then exited his stateroom.

The command bridge of the star destroyer was as busy as ever, men clad in gray scurrying from workstation to workstation in order to monitor business within the ship, within the fleet, and on the third planet of the Sol system, over which much of the sector fleet was currently in orbit. The admiral strode in, and while the activity on the bridge did not slow, voices became softer. The admiral made his way to the huge transparencies of the forward bridge, and he stared out toward space, then diverting his eyes toward the planet over which his flagship orbited. A couple of minutes later, he turned and made his way to one of the stations.

"Play it again," said the admiral to a lieutenant. The lieutenant needed no explanation. He had seen the clip dozens of times already, and so it was readily accessible. He activated the terminal, and the video began.

Arabic script with crossed swords accompanied Arabic music and singing. The video then revealed a small room with a mounted flag on the wall, also containing Arabic script. Four men stood in front of what was obviously a captured Imperial stormtrooper. His hands were bound behind him, he was still in his armor, and his helmet was missing. His haggard face bore witness to multiple beatings, one of his eyes blackened, and there was evidence of a broken lip. While the trooper had been bald and clean-shaven at the time of his capture, he now sprouted short, dark-brown hair upon his scalp and face. He looked tired and dejected. His marred face also told of uncertainty and fear. The four men standing behind him were dressed in all black pajamas, and their faces were covered with black ski masks. One of the masked men behind the trooper held a sword, and the other held a paper in his hand. As he spoke, his natural language was masked over with broken and accented Basic.

The man reading from the paper spoke of his faith in Allah and of infidel invaders defiling the holy land. He spoke of the eventual throwing off of the infidel yoke from the holy land and their expulsion back into the depths of space. He then yelled something in his own language not translated into Basic, while the other masked man behind the trooper used the sword to cut off the trooper's head. While he was being murdered, the trooper was bound and could not struggle, though he convulsed wildly during the act. The scene then faded into more Arabic script with music growing loudly in triumph.

As the video ended, the admiral turned to look briefly at the young officer, who was as angry as he. That was the video he had beamed to the High Command two standard days prior. In silent fury, he left the station and then headed back to his stateroom. Once again, he sat at his private workstation. As he watched, a blinking red icon indicated a new message. He activated the message and slowly smiled.

"Finally," he growled.

-------

As dusk fell, both men in Arabic dress and those in more "Western" clothing mingled in the city as the oppressive heat became more bearable. Their demeanor betrayed both curiosity and nervousness, for earlier in the afternoon the remaining Imperial garrisons had been packed up and moved away with large vehicles, some on the ground and others in the air. Gone were the Imperial stormtroopers and giant mechanized walkers. Most of the men and women of the city had not taken part in the resistance against the alien enemy, though they did not disapprove of the attacks. This was a holy city, and infidels had no place in it. Apparently, the infidels had been driven back. Now, the people of the city could do business in peace.

-------

Fluun stared at the horizon. He was surrounded by desert in all directions, but still he stared in one direction, occasionally moving his gaze to the twinkling stars above. One of those stars was very large, and it was moving. Two of his squad members stood next to him, one of them pulling a swig from a large bottle of water. They had all relocated deep into the Arabian desert, earlier in the day. None of them had been told why, but they had their suspicions. He recalled the video of the trooper being decapitated by the insurgents. That was his man; the one he had lost during his last combat patrol. Another man had made it back, barely, but the bad news got only worse.

One of the squad members said, "Roz did not pull through."

The statement stood on its own. Roz had been recovered from that final mission earlier in the week after taking the blunt of the explosion of a road-side bomb. Roz had smiled and talked about recovering in time for his leave, but the medics knew better. The internal damage was too severe even for a bacta tank to heal. He died earlier in the evening, after the displacement of forces and equipment had been completed. Fluun shook his head.

"Roz was a good man," said the other squad member. Fluun nodded. He thought back to how many of his mates had perished in that hellhole, and he recalled the rules of engagement that had subdued initiative. He could really use some of that stuff now – the stuff he had offered to a man on an Imperial dreadnaught so long ago; it would help deaden the pain. He tightly closed his eyes, and then opened them again, still locking his eyes on the horizon.

"Roz will be remembered, long after…"

Bright-green flashes from overhead lit the night sky, and giant, glowing green bolts slammed into the horizon. Even here, hundereds of kilometers from the target area, Fluun and his comrades felt the ground tremble from the terrific force of heavy turbolaser bolts biting deep into the crust of the planet. Fluun knew academically that the power of the heavy turbolasers was significantly reduced, set very low, or they would not survive at even so great a distance from the target area. Even so, the explosive force of the blast and the damage done by them could be seen, felt, and eventually heard with deafening thunder. Between the flashes on the horizon, Fluun saw the faces of his fallen men, though he knew it to be only in his mind. The barrage did not last long, but the glow on the horizon would remain for hours.

"Burn it all away," said the man to Fluun's right, and Fluun glanced at him, and then he turned to walk back to his sleeping quarters. His men followed, for they did not know how far the shockwave would travel, so it was best to be inside. Fluun felt exhausted.

-------

Greg jerked his head up in alarm, "They did what?!"

"The whole city was wiped from the planet," said the NCO, without apparent concern. The Empire had been known to cleanse entire planets of populations numbering in the billions, so to the NCO, destruction of but a single city meant little.

"This is different," said Greg, "this is bad."

Greg had studied Arabic and Islamic culture before, since he had conducted operations in the Middle East. The US military had been careful to avoid offending their Kuwaiti hosts, who were nearly all Muslim. The magnitude of what the Imperial fleet over Earth had done was almost unimaginable to Greg. Not only were countless thousands of people wiped out in a very short period of time, but the place itself was central to their religion. Unimaginable! Yet there it was. The reports on the event looked sterile and nonchalant – just another city had been eliminated. Greg knew he had his work cut out for him.

-------

Moheb was inconsolable. His visage was scarred with rage and grief.

"I will murder every one of them, _EN SH'ALLA!_ I will kill them all!"

Lancer Six watched as the Syrian paced back and forth. He would not be able to reason with him in this state. Much of Moheb's muttering was in Arabic, laced with rage. Two of his cohorts sat at the table, deep beneath the ground. Lancer Six sighed internally, but he did not want to interrupt the anger of Moheb. Mecca was no more. The Imperials had effectively erased it from the surface of the planet. That was approximately seven hours ago. Moheb had learned of it only an hour ago, and his anger showed no signs of abating.

"We will strike back," said Lancer Six, "and we will do so on our own terms, and at times and places of our choosing." To the right of Lancer Six sat Datshi. The normally animated Georgian looked subdued. He was used to relying on the patience and reason of Moheb to keep his own considerable fury in check. Datshi and Moheb had become friends over the past year, and Datshi now found himself in an uncomfortable position. He glanced uncertainly toward the pacing Syrian, and then a thought came to mind.

"Moheb!" barked the Georgian. Moheb slowed his pacing and looked at Datshi, anger still burning in his features. He saw hope etched in the Georgian's face.

"My friend?" said Moheb.

"We can use this," said the Georgian, "to our advantage. We can strike a severe blow at these devils!" Datshi was becoming angry again – he seemed more comfortable and in control when he was righteously angry. His smile was now savage. Lancer Six looked on with interest. Moheb studied his friend's face, interest replacing his own anger. He finally took his seat and looked questioningly at his friend.

"What can we do?" asked Moheb.

"The resistance in Mecca waged effective jihad against the invaders, did they not?" inquired Datshi.

"Na'am," said Moheb, slipping unconsciously into his native Arabic.

"Imagine that jihad, on a much grander scale," said Datshi with a predatory smile. Moheb considered his words, and then he slowly nodded. Lancer Six leaned back in his chair.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Ash filled the air, but the frequent dust storms often made it indistinguishable from blowing sand. The ash of the destroyed city of Mecca mixed neatly with the dust, and the wide-spread destruction of the city ensured its remains travelled far with the raging winds. The evenings were growing cooler, but not so much as of yet. The local calendar recorded that it was late September, and the bristling heat of the summer had slowly given way to more sane temperatures deep within the Arabian wastelands.

Fluun and his garrison had relocated to just outside the city of Riyadh, which was the capital of this particular land-mass. For a couple of weeks after the destruction of Mecca, Imperial forces had suffered ferocious and suicidal attacks by the locals. Intelligence had reported that not only the locals had been involved in such attacks, but those adhering to the local religion from outside the local land-mass had also been part of the attackers. According to what Fluun had been told, most of the attackers had come from outside the local land-mass. He was simultaneously amazed and disgusted by the reckless fury of the attacks. While they had been largely ineffective, for nearly two weeks they had been also unrelenting.

Then, about a week ago the attacks had trickled down to just a tiny flow. Significant enemy activity was reportedly now no more than could be expected in any of the other land-masses on Sol. That both relieved and disturbed Fluun. Why had the attacks suddenly abated? Did the locals realize they were conquered? Did they finally realize their resistance was silly and futile? Fluun wanted to think so, but he was no less cautious and alert during patrols even so.

Today, he and his squad were conducting a dismounted patrol through the streets of downtown Riyadh, and he felt mild comfort at the newly-fielded battle droids intermixed with his men. He had signed for three of the devices. They were spherical droids about twice the size of what the locals would term a football. They contained a suite of sensors and were armed with heavy blasters. Fluun had also been briefed that the droids contained at least a couple of thermal detonators that could be launched in case his squad fell under heavy attack. He peered to his left and spotted one of the droids floating in the air on repulsor-lifts. It quickly darted down a toward a side alley and conducted its own scan and analysis. It was dark-grey in color, and only a few small red lights marked its otherwise clean surface. Fluun knew that the droid would report only what it perceived as possible threats.

Two days prior, the droid's sensors had detected a road-side bomb that Fluun's own sensors had not. After Fluun had ordered the droid to neutralize the threat, the droid had informed the squad of a minimal safe distance, emitted a shrieking alarm that startled and scattered the locals, and then fired upon the concealed bomb. A terrific blast showered fragmentation toward the street, and Fluun reflected darkly what such a blast might have done to him or his men.

Fluun turned his gaze away from the hovering droid. Two others like it were also in the vicinity, working tirelessly to keep his squad in one piece. Rumor had it that the locals had already developed methods to neutralize the droids, involving something that had been smuggled in by the Rebels. He ardently hoped that the locals here had run across no such equipment. Chanting in Arabic floated from loud-speakers of some of the local mosques. This was the call to prayer. Fluun watched as men in traditional dress, carrying sticks, walked among the shops to ensure they were closed during the time for prayer. Multitudes of men (Fluun could spot none of the black-clad shapes reportedly containing females) walked outside and unrolled small carpets on which they then faced the ruins of Mecca to pray. Fluun ensured his squad gave the men a wide berth, for nothing was to be gained by overtly irritating or interrupting those who chose to engage in the widely-popular superstition. He was confused though. The local religion demanded prayer toward a city that the Empire had wiped off the face of the planet, and yet here they were – praying toward the ruins as though the city and its religious artifacts yet remained. Unconsciously, Fluun gripped his weapon more tightly.

-----

The desert here was unforgiving, and it was hot. No calls to prayer were to be heard over loud-speakers, and the Empire had not seen fit to wipe out any city, nor had the inhabitants of this land provided them reason to do so. Even so, a short but furious battle raged above the skies. A local teenage farmer peered through binoculars into the sky and watched what he could of the unfolding conflict. His instrument was not very powerful, but he could make out what appeared to be a wedge-shaped starship firing at what could only be a much smaller starship that appeared intent on escaping. Dim flashes told of enormous levels of firepower being flung between the two ships. After a while, he spotted a bright flash on what was likely the smaller vessel, and the firing abated. He lowered his binoculars and let his imagination run wild. Were those smugglers that were attempting to escape Imperial justice? Were starfighters involved in the fight? He would have given nearly anything to be in such a starfighter, pin-wheeling through space in pursuit of criminals, thugs or Rebels. He envisioned hapless criminals in the crosshairs of his guns as he squeezed the contacts and poured laser blasts forth in divine fury … then reality hit him like the desert heat.

This was Tatooine, and he was likely going nowhere. Last year he had asked his uncle if he could transmit his application to the academy and had been rebuffed. Uncle Owen admonished him, preaching that the family needed him too much for him to leave yet. Yet! Always later! Luke Skywalker felt it unfair. From the corner of his eye, Luke thought he saw a streak – perhaps a meteorite. Ah, what did it matter anyway? Resigned and in frustration, Luke turned his attention back to the evaporator he had been sent out to service. Nothing exciting ever happened to him, nor did it seem it ever would.

-----

Power had but one purpose: It was to be consolidated and then carefully guarded. There were only those in power and those without to be ruled by it – or challengers to be eliminated. Power for the mere exercise of it was both the ends and the means. The Sith Lord meditated in his chambers, reaching out through the dark side of the Force. His enemies were there, outside, within the galaxy – _his _galaxy. He had accomplished what none of his order had achieved, and for that, dark pride swelled within him, but tempered by the purity of hatred. Challengers were all about him – even his own apprentice with his broken and now mostly-mechanical body. Yes, he had known early of Vader's secret apprentice, and Vader had been foolish to think he could hide such from his own master. That apprentice was dead, at Vader's own hand. In the end, the young man had served the interests of Sidious, to bring out his enemies in plain view, just as he had foreseen.

The challengers that Sidious now faintly sensed, like small whispers in his mind were older, and they were not of the Sith, nor were they dark Jedi. It was with unease that Sidious recalled his last battle with the small green Jedi, Yoda. They had never discovered his body, so Sidious had to assume his enemy was yet alive, somewhere. At times, when meditating like this, Sidious could almost sense the presence of his old enemy, but it was flirtatious in nature, never quite there, withdrawn too soon. His anger increased, and his ever-hungry hatred increased in magnitude. It was a perversion of justice that such enemies remained alive within his galaxy – his Empire. There were others too – the galaxy was large, and his enemies had places to hide, even with the vast apparatus at the command of Sidious. His meditation delved elsewhere, further and in a different direction.

His guards were not Force-sensitive, but they were yet more. They were Force-impervious. They had been trained and indoctrinated through the most rigorous training to be absolutely loyal and brutal. More was needed for his enemies though, and Sidious had seen to it that the appropriate measures were taken. Even now, specially-trained Force-impervious men were being trained for a special task. His revenge was not yet quite complete, but it soon would be. Then, there would finally be peace.

-----

The reports blurred together, but the officer shook his head to stay awake. He knew the danger of stimulants, even here. While on Sol, Gregory Yost had relied on hot coffee and even chewing tobacco to remain alert during critical planning sessions in the US Army. Here in the Imperial Army, Greg could obtain much more effective stimulants, and they were perfectly legal. Even so, one could not cheat one's body indefinitely, and when crashes came after such stimulants, they came with a vengeance.

There was too much to do to grant himself sleep just yet though, or so Greg told himself. His reports had begun to paint an elaborate and disturbing picture. If his latest hypothesis held any water, the insurgents facing the Empire on both his home planet and in his adopted galaxy were much better organized and focused than he initially thought. He had always suspected that the Rebel Alliance was working with the resistance on Earth, though initial reports showed it to be a relationship of convenience, but recent reports he had analyzed reflected an intertwining he thought before not possible. Too many pieces were still missing though. In the back of his mind, Greg thought of the cryptic messages from his former superior on Earth, and he felt mild discomfort in his gut. Were they part of this puzzle, or was that something separate?

One name that came across his monitor time and again was, "Lancer Six." Greg recalled that had been the call-sign of his brigade commander while serving in the Deathbringer Battalion, but that had to be coincidence. It seemed unlikely that a brigade-level commander would play so prominent a role in the messages he had scanned. Greg typed the name into the terminal, and it took its place within the program he had created. The name took the form of the simple outline of a man, "LANCER SIX" glowing in red next to the form. From that form radiated multiple lines to different names, some identified as part of the resistance on Earth, and others connecting to shapes of men or blocks denoting organizations within the Rebel Alliance. Some lines connected with what were known Imperial agents and corrupt Imperial officials. Lines within lines, and multiple connections bespoke an elaborate organization carefully constructed for both independent operations and co-dependence on a more strategic level. The pieces were coming together, but much more was yet to be done.

Greg rubbed his eyes as he noticed the words on his screen beginning to form into nonsense. His terminal had contracted no virus, but he was exhausted, and he felt the inevitable crash impending. Greg slowly stood, realizing he might collapse if he rose too swiftly. He surveyed the small room in which he worked, and he spotted several of his men busily entering data into terminals similar to his own. A younger officer sporting the rank of a lieutenant came up to Greg with a concerned look upon his face. His hair was longer than Greg's, and Greg thought absently that it was longer than US Army standards would have allowed, but Imperial standards were different. He smiled at the young man.

"Lieutenant Lacks."

"Sir," replied the young man with concern in his voice to match his visage. Greg realized that the junior officer was obviously concerned about his state of well-being. Greg had been promoted several months before and had been assigned a larger team, including Lieutenant Lacks, Lieutenant Norzt, and and several non-commissioned officers and men, amounting to about a platoon's worth of men. Their purpose was counterinsurgency, and Greg had found no challenge in requesting and receiving only the most capable officers and men, along with whatever equipment and support he desired. Greg was now a captain, and he no longer had to share a room with another officer. He intended to take advantage of such solice.

"Think I'm going down for the night, Jord," said Greg, using the young officer's first name. Unlike the US Army, Imperial officers appeared uncomfortable using first names, even with junior officers, but Greg did so and here he was the boss.

"Yes sir."

"Do you need anything from me before I duck out?"

"No sir. I have your intent, and we will continue work on the link diagrams and pattern analysis. We are making excellent progress so far, and recent information has revealed a great deal about inner workings of the Rebels."

"Indeed," said Greg, stifling a yawn.

"Good night, sir."

Greg walked down the corridors of the massive building, if it could be called that. Wasn't this whole planet pretty much a building in and of itself? It was also unbelievably ancient, portions of the planet-wide cityscape at the lower levels reportedly thousands of years old. Greg recalled stories of ancient droids deep within the lower levels that were still blankly performing repetative functions programmed into them millennia before. Other tales bespoke droids that had degraded over time to such a point that they had become feral and dangerous. Suddenly, he realized he was dreaming while walking, and he vigorously shook his head with a grunt. He felt the crushing weight of the physical crash fall upon him, and Greg struggled with all his might to remain on course for his living quarters. After what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, Greg found the door to his quarters and used his rank cylinder to activate the lock. Once inside, Greg sat upon his bed. He had intended to unclothe or at least remove his boots, but the state of his body ensured he never reached that objective, and he fell unconscious upon the mattress.

-----

Rage filled him, as it usually did. His breathing was simultaneously regulated and labored, as though the abomination in which his weakened body had been encased was designed to constantly remind him of his weakness, and his dependency. Only in memory and in tortured dreams could he recall a time, long before, when he was able to nimbly leap through the air and wield his light-saber in a dizzying array of parries, swings and thrusts with proficient and deadly speed and accuracy, nothing able to withstand his expert attacks. Only, one man had done so and left him for dead, and for that he was now ensconced in a black, mechanical apparatus – utterly dependent upon it for day-to-day survival; and so his rage deepened.

Vader reflected upon his failure: He had been dispatched by his master to locate and recover the stolen plans to the Death Star, and he had failed. His intercepted transmissions had traced the plans to the Corellian Corvette now in the underbelly of his star destroyer. In his initial rage to locate the plans, Vader had physically crushed the life out of the captain of the smaller ship, then tossing the hapless man's form against a nearby bulkhead.

The fear he sought had been felt by all around him, and he had sensed it clearly, except within a couple of specially marked stormtroopers. Those were the newer troopers sent by the Emperor to serve closely with Vader, but Vader did not trust them. Searching them, he felt only … absence. He dared not get too close to them, for they exuded absence of the Force, and in that absence was nothing more than despair and weakness. Even in his mechanical suit, Vader knew he would not long survive without the dark side of the Force. To Vader, those were not men, but nor were they droids, for even droids could be physically manipulated by the Force. Those abominations could not, for they originated from that other, dead galaxy. Yet Vader knew he did not have the freedom to eliminate the new troopers. The will of his master would not allow it. For that, Vader's rage deepened.

Vader reflected upon his unexpected success: The princess from Alderaan was now in his possession. He recalled with a mixture of wonder and fury that she had demonstrated no fear in his presence. The princess had raged that he would not get away with his attack on her ship, but Vader knew beyond a doubt that she was a member of the Rebel Alliance. He had received reports that an escape pod had been jettisoned to the planet below. It had not been destroyed, because the gunners had detected no life forms aboard. Vader had soon realized that the plans had to be in that pod, and so he had dispatched troops to search for and recover the plans at all costs.

For some reason he himself could not discern, Vader could not bring himself to personally oversee the operation on Tatooine. While he desired to see the job through and knew the importance of the mission, something held him aboard his ship. In tortured dreams, he could yet see the form of a haggard woman, abused to the point of death by viscious and mindless Sand People. He remembered the merciless slaughter of so many of them by a young man full of hatred and fury. He recalled a distant childhood of slavery … of weakness … of failure. Dim thoughts of a beautiful young woman, full of life and confidence – no, he pushed that vision away with violent force. He hated the planet below, and he could not bring himself to step foot upon it now.

Vader intended to question the princess further prior to taking her to the Death Star and handing her over to Grand Moff Tarkin and his interrogators. Once in their possession, she would reveal what she knew, but Vader feared that might be too late. He stepped out of his room and headed for the detention area. From behind him, Vader heard the footfalls of two stormtroopers, and he nearly whirled to face them with his saber ignited. Then he quickly remembered the new troopers assigned to him. They would follow him without his command. He stopped without turning around.

"Remain at the entrance to my quarters."

"Yes sir," said the senior of the two troopers in accented Basic. He heard them retreat orderly to where he had banished them and then continued his trek. Vader thought darkly about the two men he could not sense. No, he did not trust them at all.

-----

William Dudley felt unnatural here. Memories long numbed flooded to the surface, and he felt vertigo threaten to take him. This was his native galaxy, though none but he knew it. A couple of officers in his presence wore concerned expressions.

"Sir, are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm fine. It's just … being in space is a relatively new for me."

"Oh, yes sir. You'll get used to it. It's not like what we had before the invasion. They've got artificial gravity and faster-than-light travel and all that."

"It's pretty incredible."

"Yes sir!"

William stood up, smiled at the junior officers and strode out of the small room. He found his way to a nearby viewing port and watched the colorful interplay of hyperspace. Perhaps this had been a mistake. It was not space travel that had overwhelmed his senses. _This _space was _alive_! The Force was here, and he felt it, all at once. After so long in its absence, being immersed in a universe of the Force had been like being immersed in ice-cold water after having walked thorough a scorching desert for many days. It was all about him, immersed even in the beings around him, and yet … he did not sense it in the natives from his adopted world … odd.

William closed his eyes and allowed his feelings to spread meditatively. Then he stopped and opened his eyes. He sensed something amiss. The presence he recalled from so many years before had included his many comrade Jedi, but he did not sense them now. The Force was there, but he could not sense fellow Jedi. Where had they gone? He recalled the massive war that had consumed the galaxy when he had left it. Had the CIS been victorious with its massive fleets and innumerable droid armies? Then he recalled that Palpatine was emperor now, so that didn't make sense. The right side had won. He was tempted to meditate and tune his senses further but thought better of it. William worked to close his mind off to the Force and turned toward the ship's command center.

"Good afternoon, Colonel Dudley," announced the ship's captain as William walked on to the bridge. William glanced at his watch, which he had reset to galactic standard time. It was indeed afternoon now, though just barely. He saw the vortex of hyperspace in the forward view-plates of the ship and the smiling captain off to his right.

"Good afternoon, Captain Risalah."

"We are about four standard hours from our destination, Colonel." William winced inwardly but did not show discomfort on his face. In the US Army, one was referred to by one's rank only by superiors, and then generally only when being chastised for something. William knew the good captain meant no offense, so he ensured to take none.

"Is Bill in the CIC?"

"I think so."

"Thank you," said William, and he turned aside to the combat information center. The door swished open automatically for him, and William noted with some amusement that the CIC was little different from one he might have found aboard a floating ship or an Army tactical operations center on Earth. While the instruments were obviously more advanced, they served generally similar purposes. Above a table at the center of the CIC floated a hologram of the galaxy. Studying the hologram with obvious interest was William Kinder, one of the senior officers who had served with him for so many years. As they both shared the same first names, William referred to him as Bill, and Kinder called him William.

"There is our destination, Willliam," said Bill pointing to a glob of light toward one of the inner spirals of the galaxy with an extended telescopic pointer, and he elaborated, "We are currently vicinity of here." William joined his old friend and studied the map of the galaxy. Dimly, he recalled briefings long in the past when he received detailed orders on missions wherein he and his Jedi cohorts were dispatched. Very similar holograms had then floated in the air, used to delineate detailed tasks.

"How long until we arrive?"

"Captain Risalah said we're about four hours out."

"That's right. I just asked him that."

"Have you seen the briefing on their proposals?"

"I've perused it, but there is still a lot of detail to digest."

"Pay particular attention to sub-section four of section alpha, twenty-four."

"Really?"

"Yes. I think that may cause slight consternation, but we can still fit it into the overall plan if they won't dump it."

"Ok," replied William. Bill was watching him with his steel-blue eyes. In William's opinion, Bill was easily the most adaptable and forward-thinking officer with whom he had ever served. Cautiously, William reached out with his feelings, but no, the Force fled from Bill just as all other natives of Earth. William smiled and turned toward one of the terminals. He then turned and said, "Who's the lead cat we're meeting with there again?"

"The man's name is Bail Organa."

The name had distant meaning to William. It had been a name of some importance in another life, long ago, but William couldn't place just how. He was familiar with the planet of Alderaan, at least by name. He could not recall having visited the world, but that was now their destination. He decided he had more reading to do, and so he set to work.

-----

The rain descended steadily through the darkness. It was often dark and damp here, and the precipitation fell as it had for untold millennia, further soaking a wet ground, feeding vegetation that drunk of and seemed never weary of it. Beneath the thick vegetation, no sentient life made its home, save that of one being.

Yoda sat within one of the few dry confines of the planet of Dagobah. As was his practice, much of his day was spent in meditation. He was old. To his knowledge, he was one of the oldest of the sentient beings in the known universe, and he knew that his immersion in and service to the Force was owed much for that. His eyes formed slits as he reached with his considerable senses into the deepness of space. He saw a frustrated farm boy nearing his destiny. He saw a brave young woman, though inexperienced, facing a personal crisis in the hands of evil. He saw a former apprentice waiting patiently on a desert planet, ready to assist the young farm boy when the time was right. Events were unfolding, and multiple futures he could foresee, based on decisions by others. Would he at long last be able to rest and leave the future of the galaxy in the hands of a new order? Always in motion was the future.

The old gnome wrinkled his nose. A once-promising Jedi Knight, twisted to the Dark Side performed acts of evil, bent on serving the one man who had defeated Yoda so many years ago, causing his exile to this planet. Vader was bent on torturing information out of a young woman; if only he knew the true identity of the young lady, but then … that would be worse. More pain was to come. Yoda sadly shook his head … always, more pain and suffering.

Yoda lifted his head quickly, nearly pulled out of his reverie. He sensed _another_. This one was new, and yet… The sensation was gone.

"Hmmm," said Yoda to the air around him. It heard him and yet did not. The Force was everywhere … even upon a small starship speeding toward the planet of Alderaan.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"Bertha, Harold… _**Ungh!**_" Another series of electric jolts stabbed multiple portions of his upper body, increasing in intensity and frequency, causing his already exhausted muscles to spasm, and culminating in a sickening symphony of pain. Automated syringes had pumped mind-numbing drugs into his flesh, and he felt confusion encroaching with each agonizing minute. Worse, the drugs also induced a combination of severe headache, dizziness and nausea, though he was for some reason unable to vomit. Beneath it all, Harry repeated within his mind words he had so long ago memorized:

_E__nergetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. _

More jolts pulsed into Harry's body, while the drugs coursed through his veins working to induce hopelessness.

_Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country._

"I grow weary of this repetitive prattle," droned a disembodied voice from behind the device to which Harry was held. It continued, "I have a great deal of patience, and this machine is fully capable of inducing upon you a severe level of discomfort. While I have no particular desire to do so, I can increase its intensity in a manner sufficient to permanently damage you."

_Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission though I be the lone survivor._

Those words are all Harry clung to now. Many years had passed since he had attended US Army Ranger School and memorized them. The pain was nearly unbearable, but Harry felt he could hold on just a little while longer.

"Lieutenant Colonel, United States Army, Social Security number… _**Gaaah!**_"

More electricity coursed through his racked body, at multiple points.

"No one is coming for you. There is no hope of escape," said the voice, "What is the point of this resistance? What can it possibly accomplish, other than your own suffering and eventual death? In case you are holding out hope that you will find relief through unconsciousness, I can assure you that the machine to which you are strapped is finely attuned to your physical state and will ensure that does not happen."

Harry had lost track of the time he had been here, but it seemed an eternity. He could recall the face of Mike Zilliox glaring at him. From where had such bitterness come? For the life of him, Harry could not guess. What had driven Mike to turn on him – to turn on his own people and former comrades in arms?

For weeks Harry had been locked up, and he had undergone interrogation by Imperial agents and droids. All had pressed him for information on his role in the resistance, but many questions had centered on Lancer Six. Today was no different.

"_Who_ is _Lancer Six_?"

"Bertha, Harry, Lieuten …. _**Aaaah!**_"

"What is the_ real name_ of Lancer Six? _Where _can we find him?"

"Lieutenant Colonel, United State…." Harry felt his lungs about to burst as he cried out in pain. The interrogator significantly cranked the power of the device to which he was strapped. Nearly all of Harry's muscles uncontrollably shuddered, and the drugs within him made everything look surreal, mixed with an incredible sense of vertigo and nausea.

"Be careful, or you will kill him," floated forth a different voice.

"The idiot persists in this mindless drivel, so what alternative do I have?"

"We have time."

"We have wasted too much, and he knows what we seek!"

"There are other, more effective ways."

"So be it. He is yours to deal with now."

Without warning, the machine ceased its machinations upon Harry, and merciful blackness washed over him.

-----

Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin was angry and frustrated. Who was this insignificant girl to provide undue resistance to the might of the Empire? Was not Vader a Sith Lord with power to instill dread into nearly anyone? How had he proven incapable of extracting critical intelligence from that waif? Princess Leia had proven resistant to all means available to his interrogators.

This battle station was unmatched throughout the galaxy, and indeed Tarkin knew of nothing throughout recorded history that could match it. He greatly desired to bring its main weapon to bear on the hidden Rebel base, but the unbending will of one stubborn young woman blocked the fulfillment of that desire. He could feel victory tantalizingly close, and yet how long would he have to wait to see it realized? In his mind's eye, Tarkin envisioned the battle station's main weapon penetrating deep into the rebellious world and obliterating it from existence. If Princess Leia could not be made to see reason, then he would use different means he was certain to be effective.

"Perhaps she would respond to an alternative form of persuasion."

"What do you mean?" replied Vader.

"I think it is time we demonstrated the full power of this battle station."

-----

Light rain drifted down through the atmosphere and settled upon a desert floor unaccustomed to it. The local calendar reflected mid-October, and the temperature was mild. Around the city of Riyadh were dotted Imperial outposts and prefabricated garrisons. Stormtroopers patrolled the city streets, but the frequency of the patrols was less than in previous months. Lately, violent incidents occurred as sparsely as once to twice a week, and those usually consisted only of booby traps, instead of suicide attacks or the deadly complex attacks so prevalent in the former summer months.

Fluun checked his chronometer, and it registered a local time of 2115. In the relative safety of the garrison, he could remove his body armor, and so he went without it. Scars lined his face and various parts of his body, mostly resulting from the campaign here in this particular land mass. Though calls to prayer sounded outside the building, he could not hear them inside and for that he was grateful. Not all calls to prayer in the past had been for their intended purpose, but some had rather been audible signals for complex attacks by local fighters.

While Fluun could not obtain the _stuff_ he had access to prior to his banishment to this Sith-forsaken place, he had over the past few weeks gained access to locally-produced product that came close to granting him what he sought. The leadership was opposed to the practice, and they made half-hearted attempts to clamp down on it. But here, few leaders made any real effort to enforce the guidance handed down from higher unless it directly impacted the mission.

Fluun reached for his nose, wiping away some dried blood encrusted within his right nostril. He still felt some euphoria from his earlier use of the locally-available _stuff_, but the powder had some unfortunate side effects that the spices he could obtain in his home galaxy did not produce. Obtaining the substance was easier these days than it had been even a month ago. Various local workers conducted menial tasks for the Imperial garrisons, and they were quite eager to exchange credits for the product, which they had with them.

Fluun savored the moment, for he knew that he would be back out on patrol within the next few hours. The constant threat to life or limb no longer lurked around every corner, but over the past few weeks it had been replaced by boredom, mixed with ingrained wariness. Fluun suspected every local he met as a rebel, but they had orders not to engage unless hostile intent was identified. Nobody had any interest in seeing the situation with these people degenerate into the nightmare of before. Hostility remained in the brown faces of the men within the city, but the deadly intent seemed less – at least in any overt way. Conversely, the stress Fluun and his men experienced grew. Within a short while, Fluun would be back out there again, attempting to cheat death for yet another few hours.

"Did you hear the latest, sir?" inquired one of Fluun's squad members from behind him.

"What?"

"Over two thousand more joined up, yesterday alone?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You really don't know, sir?"

"If I did, would I be asking?"

"Locals – the Arabs; they're joining the Empire in droves."

Fluun turned in his chair to face the younger trooper. Like Fluun, his subordinate was dressed down to basic clothing, absent his armor. He was nursing a plastic bottle of water that had been flavored by something colored red. He appeared a good dozen years younger than Fluun, but he noted with resignation that such was prevalent these days. His light brown hair was cropped short, and his dialect sounded like one of the planets from the outer rim. Fluun struggled to place the young man's name – he had lost so many in the past few months.

"You're Bren, right?"

"Yes sir."

"You say the locals are joining the Empire?"

"Yes sir; as stormtroopers mostly, from what I have heard."

"Emperor preserve us."

"Rumor has it that the Emperor is all for it."

"So now you have an inside line to what the Emperor thinks?"

"Uh, no sir. I meant no disrespect … uh, I did not mean to infer…"

"Forget it."

Later in the evening, Fluun and his squad conducted their patrol. The intelligence briefing had warned of booby traps, but he found none in his sector. He still felt comfort knowing the hovering battle droids were providing extra sensor and lethal protection for him and his squad. As he stepped around the corner of a building, a young native approached him. Fluun tensed.

"Where do I go to become a soldier?" inquired the native in broken Basic. Fluun noted he was wearing a white _dishdasha_, popular among the local male population. As usual, the black shapes allegedly containing females were few and far between – and never alone.

"There are two recruiting centers in the city. Go see them."

"I want to be a soldier like you."

"Go see the men at the recruiting center and tell them."

The young man glanced at the hovering and whirring grey globe overhead, looked back at Fluun, and replied, "_Shookran_." He then turned and walked away from the squad. Fluun felt he would never become accustomed to civilians walking up to troopers, much less talking to a trooper. While he had been speaking to the native, his other droids and his men had spread out to ensure they were not being set up for an ambush.

As Fluun returned to the garrison with his squad, he noticed a message on his personal terminal. His commander wanted to see him. Fluun took off his helmet but kept on his body armor. He felt there was little sense in making the commander wait. He made for the office.

_Office_ was a liberal term for what Captain Tamek used for a headquarters. An over-sized cleaning closet would have been closer to the mark, but then the officer rarely used his office except for once or twice a day to check message traffic. Most of his time was spent in the field with his troopers. As Fluun entered, he noticed that the commander was still wearing is desert-camouflaged body armor without helmet. Fluun congratulated himself on his own decision not to dress down.

Captain Tamek busily engaged himself with whatever held his attention on his terminal. There was but one chair in the tiny room, and he was occupying it. After a couple of minutes, he glanced up at Fluun, who was still at the position of attention.

"At ease," he said, and then continued working on his terminal. After another five minutes, he discontinued work on the terminal, leaned back in his chair, and again looked at Fluun.

"Sir, TK-378 reports."

"I am transferring you."

"Sir?"

"The orders have been transmitted to your terminal."

"Sir, if I may … why am I being transferred?"

"You have performed in an exemplary manner here, and you are needed elsewhere." The captain locked eyes on Fluun in concentration, seeming to hesitate, but then he added, "I know of your _habit_, which ironically is what helped land you here in the first place."

"Sir, I …"

"It is what it is, and it will no longer be overlooked. Know that your superiors at your next duty station will also be aware of your _habit_ and will be monitoring your activities closely. It would be in your best interest to terminate that particular habit soonest. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Dismissed."

Fluun turned to leave. He knew what was unspoken as well. The commander could have taken harsh disciplinary action against him if he chose, but he had not exercised the authority to do so. He knew that his duty performance likely played a large role in such a decision. Moreover, it was often simpler for commanders to transfer problems rather than delve into the cumbersome processes involved in disciplinary action. Reaching a nearby terminal, he logged in and checked his messages. There was the order. Reading it, he started in surprise. He was to report to the massive, moon-sized space station known as the Death Star. Inwardly, Fluun smiled. He was finally leaving this cursed excuse for a world.

-----

"So, you were a member of the Imperial Senate?"

"That is correct," replied Bail Organa, "My daughter, Leia, followed in my footsteps, becoming the youngest senator in history."

"That is impressive."

"Unfortunately, the Imperial Senate no longer exists. The Emperor dissolved it a short while ago."

William Dudley leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together, forming them into a steeple. The room in which he found himself was well-furnished, but it was in the bowels of the Alderaan Royal Palace. He recognized only a couple of the persons at the table from previous briefs. The architecture of the place was ornate while simultaneously ancient in form, but that was unsurprising. Unlike Earth, societies in this galaxy were thousands of years old. From time to time, William had to remind himself that he was a native of this galaxy himself, though he had no intention of revealing that to anyone else. To his left was seated Bail Organa, and he also recognized Mon Mothra at the table. Four others were also present. William understood that two were also former members of the Imperial Senate, while two other served as senior military leaders of the Rebel Alliance.

"I am sorry to hear about the plight of your daughter, Senator Organa," said William, retaining the man's recent honorific.

The older man's eyes fell momentarily toward the table.

"We received reports from our spies that she may have been taken to the Death Star by Lord Vader. That said, she is both brave and resourceful. I have faith that she will find her way through this most recent trial," he hesitated and then added, "She _must_ survive this … if only he knew."

"Sorry?"

Bail Organa quickly recovered, smiling weakly, "Oh never mind. I am just an old man who fears for his daughter."

"That is completely understandable. Our thoughts and prayers are with her for her safe return."

"Thank you," replied Bail who then turned toward Mon Mothra.

Taking the visual cue, Mon Mothra said, "Colonel Dudley, it is a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face. I feel as though I already know you, since we have conducted so many long-range conferences together."

"Ma'am, the pleasure is all mine."

"We have received many positive reports about the resistance on your home planet, and the greater plan is well in motion."

"We lost a lot of good fighters, but we feel that conditions are now set for the next phase of our operation." William recalled poring over reports of horrific casualties, some of the names and their accompanying faces forever imprinted upon his mind.

"I understand you recently initiated _Operation Black Horse_."

"Yes ma'am. While the events that facilitated that particular operation were horrendous, Operation Black Horse may well be the final piece necessary to achieve our final objective."

Mon Mothra raised her eyebrows, "Do you really think that will allow us to accelerate our plans to the degree Lancer Six proposed?"

"He believes so."

"That would be, impressive."

Over the next three hours, the participants covered details of supporting operations and phases of the major operation. Bill came in about an hour into the meeting with detailed plans, and he covered recent intelligence reports. They had agents throughout the Imperial military apparatus, and they were working to infiltrate even the highest levels. Bribery and corruption had proven to be effective tools.

When the meeting was over, William, Bill and Mon Mothra headed for their respective starships. Much work was yet to be done. As William neared his starship, one of his officers walked briskly toward him.

"Sir, we need to leave as soon as possible."

"What is the problem?"

"Alderaan officials report the Death Star has entered the system."

"That's interesting. Senator Organa thinks his daughter may be on board that battle station. Perhaps they intend to use her as some sort of bargaining chip."

"Sir?"

"Eh? Oh, it's just something we were discussing. Alright, let's go."

-----

Lieutenant General Merdon Voss used his time and resources wisely. He knew that he was not widely trusted, and many higher level Imperial officers thought he knew things about them. It was true that Voss had information on high level officers, but the perception was that he knew much more. Voss smiled. He was okay with that. Let them think he knew more than he did. What he did know is that he had over time developed an impressive array of subordinates to plan and execute multiple tasks, and young Captain Gregory Yost of Sol was one of his newer additions.

Voss stared at the lone terminal on his desk. It was capable of holographic projection, which was useful for studying operational and strategic graphics in sectors of the galaxy, but he often chose to view information in only two dimensions, unless he was required at a briefing. He was ever thankful for his aide, Colonel Meridian, but he would soon lose him. He was too talented an officer to remain where he was, and Voss had recommended him for a higher level assignment that would warrant a promotion.

Unlike Voss, Meridian was family man with three children, two of whom were now grown. One of Meridian's sons had recently graduated from the academy and was now training to become a TIE fighter pilot. Voss recalled that he was a likeable young man who demonstrated considerable potential. He mused that perhaps he could get Meridian's son as a replacement for his personal aide, but that would be unfair to the promising young pilot.

Voss studied the information on his terminal. The recent announcement of the dissolution of the Imperial Senate both puzzled and concerned him. He could not surmise what the Emperor hoped to gain. At least the Imperial Senate had provided a small illusion of democracy for the people, and they had no real power. Voss feared that dissolving the Imperial Senate would work only to strengthen the Rebels. That made his job more difficult.

Voss was also aware of the stolen plans for the giant space station, and he knew that Vader had seized the young senator from Alderaan. She was certainly suspicious due to her ties and activities, but Voss felt that seizing her was a dangerous move, even with the dissolution of the Imperial Senate. She was a popular figure, and rough treatment of her was likely to generate sympathy for the Rebellion.

Voss looked over recent reports sent to him by Captain Yost. The young man was doing excellent work, and his efforts had assisted in the capture of a high-value target that had the potential to provide vital intelligence about the resistance on Sol. The general allowed himself a smile.

-----

"How many do you think are there?"

"Thousands are now in place, and more are following."

Deep underground, the two men sat at a table illuminated by a single incandescent bulb overhead. Dampness within the network of artificial caves was further contributed to by underground springs that had been discovered during excavation. Unseen and in the shadows, but known to both men were many other armed men whose sole duty it was to ensure the security of their respective charges, both facing each other at the long table.

Datshi eyed his friend Moheb with caution. The Syrian had recovered from his initial shock well over the past few weeks, and he had thrown himself into his work like a possessed man. By some trick of the sparse light provided by the one fixture in the area, the Syrian's face took on a menacing hue. While they both had been working for nearly a year on the plan they now discussed, efforts to speed, and modify the process were now considerably accelerated. The Georgian had been concerned that Moheb would go off the deep end, but his friend now seemed as tempered and dangerous as a sword.

"What of _Grey Six_?"

Datshi shrugged, "Lancer Six says he won't talk."

"I do not share his enthusiasm."

"He really does not know much."

"He knows enough."

"Well, what can we do about it anyway, my friend?"

"We can take action."

"Is it worth the risk though?"

The Syrian smiled, "Do you still underestimate me?"

"But Lancer Six…"

"He approves. I spoke to him already."

The Georgian raised an eyebrow.

-----

The brilliant light of day assaulted Harry's aching head like a sledgehammer, as he was led out of the building. His hands were manacled behind his back, and he was flanked by two stormtroopers. A gray-clad Imperial officer led the way, while another stormtrooper followed him.

As Harry's vision cleared, ahead of him he could see a transport ahead of him. He knew from previous operations that this was an Imperial shuttle. It looked like they intended to take him off-world. What more could they do to him? The officer in front stopped and turned to face Harry, a sneer of cold contempt on his face.

"You have demonstrated impressive resistance to our questions, but that will soon come to an end."

Harry said nothing, but a smile barely forced its way through swollen lips.

The officer matched his smile, "But I wonder just how resistant you will continue to be in the face of what awaits?"

Harry remained silent.

"Your wife, Mary, is a _remarkable_ woman."

Harry involuntarily surged toward the officer, though he was restrained by his shackles and the gauntleted hands of the two troopers flanking him. The officer smiled without mirth, satisfied at Harry's reaction. Almost in a panic, Harry wondered how they had found his wife. Frankly, he had thought her dead during the initial Imperial attack, but he had later discovered she was yet alive. Out of fear for her safety, Harry had not reinitiated contact, so he was sure she thought he too was dead.

"She will be happy to see you again, though perhaps the feeling will not long persist."

"You don't have her."

"I do not? Very well, then you can tell the woman who looks, acts, and sounds remarkably like your wife that she is not who she claims to be when you see her."

Harry felt a knot in his gut, and he wanted to vomit. Harry felt all hope drain from him, and the hopelessness he had not allowed to envelop him now settled like a cold, wet blanket. The officer turned and continued leading the way toward the shuttle.

"_Die, Rebel scum_!" shouted a tinny voice from next to the shuttle. Harry looked up in time to see a red flash, and then he knew no more. A blaster bolt crashed center-mass into his chest, and he slumped lifelessly within the grip of his two escorts.

The Imperial officer pulled out his side-arm, and he and the remaining strormtroopers leveled their weapons at the culprit.

"_Freeze_!" shouted the closest stormtrooper, and the culprit, another stormtrooper, dropped his carbine and held his arms aloft.

The Imperial officer turned and looked at the body of Harry Bertha. One of the troopers who had been escorting the man looked up and uselessly offered, "He is dead, sir."

-----

They had captured Lieutenant Colonel Bertha? Greg stared at the blandly-written report on his monitor in some disbelief. That was never part of the plan. Sickly, Greg became aware that his own efforts and input were at least partially credited with facilitating the capture of his former commander.

Greg feverishly dug through the archive and scanned for more reports on Bertha. The man had been captured for some time and had undergone intense interrogation, garnering no results. Greg swallowed, as he envisioned techniques likely used for such interrogation. He continued to scan the documents. As he read, his eyes grew wider and his alarm grew."

"Mrs. Bertha."

"Sir?" said one of the men working on a terminal nearby.

A pale Greg looked at him, "Nothing … uh, never mind," he said, returning his attention to the terminal. Bertha's wife had been detained. What had they intended to do with her? He recalled the kindness of Mary Bertha during one of the officers' calls to her house a few years ago. She had been cheerful, and Greg's girlfriend had got along well with her. This seemed unreal.

Greg continued reading, and then he could read no more. As calmly as he could, Greg logged off of the terminal and turned to Lieutenant Lacks.

"I will be stepping out for a while, Lieutenant."

"Yes sir," replied the junior officer, staring at Greg with obvious concern. Greg smiled lightly and exited.

Greg secured the entrance to his quarters and sat heavily upon the chair to his small desk. He stared blankly at the inactive terminal on his desk.

"Dead," he whispered to himself.

Harry Bertha had been killed by a stormtrooper. The reports stated that the shooting was not sanctioned, but then why was he shot? Greg shook his head. A yellow message alert began blinking on his terminal, but Greg felt no desire to activate it just yet. He closed his eyes and willed himself to be somewhere else.

-----

The stormtrooper stood before the Imperial officer. He was still shackled and his helmet was removed. Two armed stormtroopers stood on either side of him, carbines at port-arms.

"Tell me again why you shot the man we were escorting."

"He was the same one I told you about."

"Yes, we have heard this before, but as before it still makes no sense."

The anger in the eyes of the shackled stormtrooper still blazed, but the officer sensed it was not directed at him.

The officer said, "You have no idea how much intelligence value that man possessed, and now we can obtain nothing from him – thanks to you."

"He was a rebel coward, and he got no less than he deserved," growled the stormtrooper with determination.

"Again, where is your explanation?"

"He and his kind butchered my brothers!"

"What?"

"You were not there! You cannot know … sir."

"Know, what?"

"His unit was the one that destroyed my ancestral town! It was he who was responsible for the butchery of my brothers as they defended their homeland," spat the restrained man, rage filling his eyes.

The officer sighed and leaned back in his chair. It was clear now. It was easy to forget the multiple conflicts that had raged on this planet prior to the arrival of the Empire. These two men were apparently involved in such a conflict, on opposing sides. He would have to punish this man, although transferring him would be simpler.

"Take him back to his cell, for now."

Once the trooper entered his cell, one of the two escorts removed his restraints and secured the cell door. The man looked at the one window toward the top of the wall, opposite the door. A beam of sunlight streamed in from outside, illuminating some of the dust particles permeating the room. He closed his eyes. In his mind, he could hear the chanting of verses. Though he did not have a prayer rug with him, that did not prevent him from facing what he felt to be the direction of Mecca, and he began a ritual practiced daily by so many millions of the faithful.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

He had not foreseen this – not entirely. Many things did the Force reveal to those who listened, and listening was he, always. He also knew that the Force did not reveal events, or if it did they were but images of what might be. Images came both bidden and unbidden to him as through mists, and some more clearly, and even others in dreams.

Skywalker was in the hands of Kenobi now. That, Yoda saw clearly. The future was always in motion, but he still foresaw the recovery of Skywalker's sister now upon the enormous battle station of the Empire, though not for long. Other events were transparent, or seemingly so. Yoda could distantly foresee a great battle between the Skywalker father and son, but that particular vision was not so clear as it had once been. Other visions now clouded that one, almost as many that were attempting to split apart. New visions including both father and son now introduced themselves into Yoda's mind, all with equal possibility.

The Emperor grew more powerful, and Yoda sensed he drew his power from different sources now than he had earlier envisioned. His arrogance was evident in all he did, and his hand was seen upon many events. Darkly, Yoda recalled the creation of the clone army in secret, prior to the fall of the Republic.

He had sensed the destruction of Alderaan. How could he not? It had come as a shock, and he yet reeled in horror and sadness. Such a senseless mass-slaughtering of life! Yet the new presence he felt, but no, not _new_. The presence was … _familiar_, from the past, but had been lost for a while. A Jedi was this person, but his presence in the Force was much diminished. From a terrible destruction had he but barely escaped. Of that, Yoda was certain.

The old gnome stared into the dense foliage that lent color to the gloom of his home in exile. No precipitation from above fell today, at least not in the form of anything other than that which had collected in the thick canopy above. This place was alive with the Force. He glanced over his shoulder. Yes,_ that_ place too was alive, with the _Dark Side_ of the Force. It waited patiently for a young man to enter. No longer was the image of that particular future so certain, but perhaps a trial of a different kind waited for him. Yoda shook his head. It was too soon, and the boy was not ready.

A reptile chattered in the distance, and Yoda stirred the ground with his walking stick. He grunted to himself.

"Always in motion is the future."

-----

Rows of Imperial stormtroopers stood in formation, dark gray armor glistening under artificial light. They stood at the position of attention, carbines at port arms. This was but one regiment of several within the massive training complex, and their rigorous training was now complete. Indoctrination was still ongoing, and indeed that portion of training would likely not see an end. Their gray armor denoted these troopers as set apart, and they were to perform a different function from standard Imperial stormtroopers.

The training the troopers had undergone included basic combat training provided to regular stormtroopers. Addition training the troopers had undergone included espionage, assassination, reconnaissance, counterinsurgency training, and more. The men were finely-honed tools of warfare, sharpened to a fine edge. Soon, they would be pitted against enemies of the Empire.

A man stood from a vantage point, gazing at the formation of troopers. His receding hairline and round face included what appeared to be thin black blindfold. He could not see in a physical sense, but the Force had provided vision to him that was beyond what the physical realm could provide. His was an Imperial Inquisitor, and he had also been tasked with overseeing the training of these regiments of special troopers. Through his Force vision, he could see the troopers before him. It was their absence within the Force that revealed their presence. Their training was to a level sufficient to begin their deployment throughout the galaxy, and Jerec was responsible for the final portion of their indoctrination.

He recalled the day he had first become aware of beings such as these. A young man from Sol had stood before him, terrified. Jerec's attempts to wield his considerable powers within the Dark Side of the Force against the young man had proven ineffectual. It was then that he had discovered what an asset such men could be, were his ultimate plans to come to fruition. He was a patient man, but now events were unfolding that might allow him to achieve his goal much sooner than he had anticipated.

He carefully guarded his thoughts at all times, and he knew that all times he must be cautious. The Emperor was powerful, and his ruthless agent, Vader, was ever watchful for threats. Jerec had carefully crafted his own plans, and they would have to be just as carefully executed. The slightest misstep would certainly lead to a swift and terrible end for him.

Imperial indoctrination was perfected to an art. The troopers arrayed before him were constantly bombarded by propaganda, from the time they woke up until the time they went to sleep. Even in sleep, the troopers were subjected to subliminal messages through various means. They would indeed be powerful tools in the arsenal of the Empire. He smiled inwardly, though it never reached his face.

-----

"You really want to go through with this, my friend?"

"Na'am," replied the Syrian, slipping unconsciously into Arabic.

"You are needed here."

"I will be more useful there."

Datshi stared at his friend. The eastern European city was not that far from the dark caverns in which they normally met, and the effects of Fall were visible in the colorful leaves of the trees dotting the old town. Moheb was wearing a light jacket with some older gray slacks. Datshi wore blue jeans with a long-sleeved shirt, as he usually did, his hands shoved in his pockets. Just around the corner was an Imperial recruitment center, and Datshi was now finished trying to talk his friend out of his chosen course of action.

"Go then my friend, and peace be upon you."

"_En'sha'lla!_"

Moheb turned to leave his friend and made his way toward the small building. Datshi watched him go. He knew they had contacts and even officers throughout the Empire, but he sighed as he watched his friend go. He was certain he would not see Moheb again.

-----

Fluun felt better than he had in years. In his mind, this is what a professional regiment of Imperial stormtroopers was meant to be. The men assigned with him on this massive, mobile space station were the best of the best, second to none. Their purpose was clear, as they were tasked with maintaining peace aboard the space station itself and serving as expeditionary troopers for large-scale ground assaults.

While Fluun was certainly pleased with his quarters and other amenities to be found on the station, he was most impressed with the multiple state-of-the-art training facilities aboard the planetoid space station. Multiple firing ranges, shoot-houses, immersive holo-simulators, and challenging physical endurance courses were constantly available for groups up to battalion level.

Each stormtrooper regiment also had the opportunity to compete against one another in massive training centers that were designed to replicate any number of likely battlefield conditions. Most pleasing was the inclusion of low-intensity conflict scenarios including civilian role-players.

"Your squad will conduct a presence patrol of the charlie four-nine sector," said the platoon commander.

Fluun stood around a large briefing table with other squad leaders and the platoon commander, over which a holo-projection of the training facility glowed and slowly rotated. As the platoon commander spoke, Fluun watched as the sector he had indicated glowed red. He checked his internal imaging systems to ensure the sector indicated had downloaded properly. It had, and it included details not currently shown on the holo-table. Fluun turned his attention back toward the platoon commander. While civilians and those not wearing stormtrooper armor would see just another stormtrooper, Fluun clearly saw the platoon commander's rank within the heads-up display within his visor.

"Roger, sir."

The platoon commander briefed mission criteria to the other squad leaders. Once he was done and received acknowledgement from each squad leader, he covered what the company's intelligence section had provided regarding the threat. As he spoke, the hologram showed likely enemy positions and threat areas. Automatically, Fluun checked his own internal systems to ensure threat data had been received, and he knew his fellow squad leaders were doing the same. The group was dismissed, and the squad leaders departed to provide briefings with their respective squads, conduct pre-combat checks and execute rehearsals.

At the end of the day, after Fluun dismissed his squad, he changed into his garrison clothing and headed for the nearest cantina. He was sore in a couple of places, and he absently rubbed at his left shoulder. The enemy role players were armed with real weapons, or at least they _felt_ real. He knew that the weapons had significantly toned-down power, but they stung all the same when they hit, and if they hit in the right (or wrong) place, then the effect was a stun that would last several minutes. A stun grenade had detonated against Fluun's squad, and he had taken the brunt of the blast.

Sitting at a table, Fluun let the day's stress flow from him. He ordered a drink with light alcohol content. All alcoholic drinks available in the cantina were light in nature, and nobody was allowed more than their ration, which was strictly monitored. Even so, the moderate amount of the alcohol in Fluun's drink served to take off some of the edge. He allowed his gaze to drift to the other occupants of the cantina. Many of the occupants were in small groups, talking among themselves. Some played Sabbac, while others played holo-games or watched one of the several holo-vids playing. He turned to study other occupants, and then he froze.

Seated at one of the nearby tables were three of the brown-skinned natives of Sol in whose land he had recently been stationed. They sat together in relative silence, and Fluun strained his ears to listen. It did no good, since they were speaking the gibberish of their native land. Fluun had heard enough of it to recognize it for what it was. They were not playing Sabbac, nor did they appear interested in any other available entertainment. Studying their clothing, Fluun decided they were off-duty troopers. While he knew they were troopers like him, he still felt uneasy at their presence all the same.

One of the men facing in the direction of Fluun locked eyes with him. Fluun felt an involuntary shudder. He nodded and turned his attention back to his drink. The alcohol no longer calmed him. Taking another drink, Fluun stood and left the cantina, his drink only half finished.

-----

"Within the Death Star itself?"

"Yes sir."

Greg felt it was an unconscionable breach of security. He was still reeling from the shock that the battle station had obliterated a planet recently, and now this? Reports told of an unlikely insurgent rescue attempt on the battle station. They had brought aboard a wizard with them, but Lord Vader had destroyed him. Still, it was a small team.

"And the ship escaped, you say?"

"Yes sir."

"That's not possible. That battle station has multiple fighter squadrons that would have shot that freighter out of space quickly. Moreover, its multiple turbolaser batteries would have made short work of that ship anyway, without fighters."

"Yes sir."

"They were _let_ go."

"Sir?"

"The insurgents were allowed to escape. I just can't see _why_."

Greg engaged his terminal again. He rifled through some of the reports he had been gathering. Initially, reporting from that battle station had been sparse. Greg had worked with several other officers to rectify that though over the past month. General Voss would not tolerate a lack of reporting, Sith Lord or Grand Moff aboard it notwithstanding. The reports he received from the enormous battle station were limited to just a few intelligence sections, and Greg was reasonably certain it was contained within the intelligence apparatus. He logged off his computer and left the room.

Greg was one of the few junior officers who had a direct line to General Voss. Not that Greg could walk directly into the general's office, but he did have ready access to his aide, who in turn had direct access to the general. Greg used his rank cylinder to open the door to the aide's office, and a colonel looked up from his desk at him in mild annoyance. Greg did not recognize the officer.

"What do you want, captain?"

"Sir, I need to discuss a matter of some importance with General Voss."

"Really? What matter is that?"

"Sir, it has to do with the recent escape of the _Millennium Falcon_ from the Death Star."

"I have no knowledge of that event."

"Even so, sir, I am certain the general _is_ tracking the event, and I need to discuss details with him as soon as possible."

The colonel looked at his console and then back at Greg.

"The general will be free tomorrow around 1300. I can fit you in then."

"Sir, it is a matter of some urgency. If you could just …"

"I _said_, I can fit you in at 1300 _tomorrow_," said the colonel stonily, "now, if there is nothing else, _captain_."

"Yes sir," said Greg with resignation. He spun on his heel and walked quickly toward his own work area. He returned to his terminal and logged in. He had not sent any high-priority messages to the general before, but this was important. If what he thought was happening was actually taking place, then they were in very real trouble. His message screen appeared, and Greg paused. A message was blinking yellow. That was not surprising, as he often dealt with medium-priority messages. This one though was different. Tentatively, he opened the message.

-----

_Dear Greg,_

_We heard that you have been doing quite well, and we are all so proud of you. Pensacola just isn't the same without you here with us! You may be interested to know that your uncle is going to the big game, and he is excited since it looks like his team will have a really good chance of winning. He keeps pestering us all about the new head coach, complaining that he's afraid the coach might make some bone-headed calls and blow the game. Well, you know your uncle! Come back to visit us when you get a chance._

_Love,_

_Ms. Elliott_

-----

Greg quickly closed the message and deleted it. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, but his men were all engaged in their own work and paid him no attention. The intent of the message was clear: They knew what he knew. They knew he knew it, and they didn't want him sharing such knowledge with his superiors. Well, he had intended to tell the general what he suspected, but that idiot aide of his had rebuffed him.

Greg's finger hovered over the terminal, ready to activate a high-priority message to General Voss. He closed his eyes. Hundreds of thousands of Imperial personnel were aboard that battle station. In the unlikely event it was destroyed, and Greg did not provide warning …then again, that battle station had recently annihilated an entire planet along with its population. But was that the fault of the men stationed aboard? Where was it headed now? Greg did not know, but he was fairly certain that the small freighter that had escaped it was being tracked, perhaps to the elusive insurgent base of operations. If they could wipe out the nest of insurgents in one swift stroke, then all this could come to an end, and peace could be restored at last.

_Peace?_ An internal voice mocked him. What peace is that? Were planets to be wiped out at a whim to achieve such … _peace_? Then he recalled the recent death of his former boss, the very man who had set Greg on this course in the first place. Suddenly a piercing alarm wailed, and Greg was yanked from his reverie.

"What is that?" shouted Greg above the din.

"I don't know, sir. Let me check," replied Lieutenant Lacks as he delved into his terminal. The alarm reminded Greg of a collision alert he had heard aboard the Imperial ship on which he had served. General Quarters drills were common aboard ship, so such an alarm was familiar to him – but he had never experienced such a drill here, nor had an alarm of any kind ever sounded here.

"Sir, come with us," said a stormtrooper who had entered the room and stepped next to Greg. He looked to his other side and noticed that another trooper was waiting there. Greg was escorted through the halls, which were now jammed with officers, soldiers, and stormtroopers. He was hurried into the waiting room of General Voss' office. The aide was no longer at his desk. Once in the general's office, the troopers maneuvered to the far side of the room and opened the door to the general's private quarters. At the far end of that room, another door opened and Greg was ushered inside. It was an elevator. One of the troopers stepped in and activated a control with what appeared to be a rank cylinder.

"Sir, this will take you to safety."

"Safety?"

The trooper did not answer but quickly stepped out. The door closed, and Greg felt the elevator begin a rapid descent.

-----

A giant Golan weapons platform spat turbolaser bolts and proton missiles at its target, the shields of the target deflecting them or absorbing their energy. Even so, it was too late to stop it. A 1600-meter wedge-shaped star ship hurtled toward the surface of Imperial Center, the atmosphere already dragging on the vessel and creating an impressive light show for anyone below who watched. Fighters swarmed about the Imperial star destroyer, pelting it ineffectually with laser cannons.

On the bridge of the mile-long ship, a stormtrooper stood with his helmet under his arm at the triangular viewing ports, gazing impassively at the swiftly approaching planet. At his feet was an Imperial officer, sprawled in death. His team had worked quickly, and they had rehearsed every last detail, including multiple branches and sequels. Nobody had expected the assault by their own stormtroopers, and his men had provided no reaction time.

The man turned to face one of the blast doors to the bridge. It was glowing in places now. The troopers on the other side were desperately cutting through the doors, but they would not be in time. He momentarily closed his eyes and then reopened them. He could feel the massive ship shuddering slightly from atmospheric drag and the relentless pounding it was taking from weapon systems intent on destroying it.

Scattered throughout the bridge were other dead Imperial officers, crewmen and stormtroopers, blast marks on various parts of their bodies. They had been caught by surprise, and so they had died quickly. Other stormtroopers – _his_ troopers now stood at various stations, most with their helmets removed. The same was true for other critical areas throughout the ship, where control of the vessel might have otherwise been restored to the enemy. The man turned his gaze back to the view ports. His target on the surface of the planet grew quickly.

"_Alla'hu Ackbar_," he said softly.

-----

The Emperor felt the threat before the report reached him.

"_Fools_!" he spat in contempt. Did they really think this desperate gamble of theirs would work? Why did so many underestimate the Dark Side of the Force? He reached out through the Force to seize control of the men controlling the ship, and … _nothing_! His smile was replaced by a grimace. He activated a control in the armrest of his chair.

"Yes, my Lord?" came a voice over the speaker.

"An Imperial capital ship is attempting to ram us. Destroy it."

"Uh … yes … my lord!" The intercom cut out. What those on that ship could not know was that the Emperor's palace was protected by a powerful energy shield. Their efforts would prove futile. Still, it would be best if they were destroyed.

"My lord!" cried a voice from the speaker.

"What is it?"

"We need to evacuate you immediately!"

"Do not be a fool, commander. They cannot penetrate our shield."

"My lord! The shield … it's not active!"

"What do you mean?"

"The shield is down, and we cannot activate it!" The Emperor wasted no time. He quickly arose and headed to his elevator. Two Imperial guardsmen robed in red fell in at his side. He would deal with this treachery soon enough.

-----

A massive spherical space station dropped out of hyperspace.

"Sir, we have entered the Yavin system."

"Very good," replied the officer. He turned to report to Grand Moff Tarkin.

"Sir!"

The officer stopped and turned to face another crewman, who had shouted.

"What?"

"We have received a coded dispatch from Imperial Center."

"Well?"

-----

The Rebel Alliance had waited long for this day. All events were falling into place, even though this was an awful gamble. If they failed, then the Rebel Alliance would be destroyed, and the Empire would be strengthened. The plans for the Death Star had revealed a weakness that could be exploited to destroy the mammoth space station, but it would rely on small star fighters and very good targeting.

Throughout the Rebel base, men at various consoles tracked the movement of the giant armored space station as it maneuvered toward the planet of Yavin at sublight speed.

Other Rebel officers crowded around a table and transparent wall charts, busily creating notations and entering data into terminals. The pilots had been briefed and were ready for their mission. Most of them knew it was a desperate mission, and they knew the odds of survival were slim. Even so, while many of them were extraordinarily nervous, they were in high spirits. They would soon launch.

"Sir!"

An Alliance officer turned to face the young man peering into a console.

"Yes?"

"The Death Star … it has turned away from us. It's going into hyperspace."

"What? _Why_?" He suddenly felt foolish for asking the question, since the young man would be as clueless as he. The officer hurried through the command center to report to the general.

"Why would they do this?" asked a puzzled Leia. The rest of the command staff looked about, but each face revealed only puzzlement.

"Surely, they tracked the Falcon to our location, and their scans would have quickly revealed what was here," replied the base commander.

"We need to find out what happened," said Leia needlessly.

"I agree, your Highness. But even though that Death Star has departed the system, we can be certain they have reported our position to the rest of the Imperial fleet. I believe we will soon get a great number of unwanted visitors."

"Of course you're right, Commander. Prepare for evacuation."

In the pilot ready room, the announcement was made, and the sense of relief among the Rebel pilots was almost palpable. While many had been itching for the upcoming fight, the pilots also had a good idea of the odds they were to face. They stood up and milled about, as the room steadily emptied. Luke Skywalker spotted Biggs Darklighter.

"Well, it looks like we'll have a chance to catch up on old times after all."

"Yeah, looks like we do."

Elsewhere in the ruins of the ancient temple, a small Corellian freighter was preparing to depart. Han Solo collected the credits awarded him for rescuing the princess, and now he felt a great sense of relief. He recalled the conflict he had felt within at leaving these foolish people to their fate. Well, fate it seemed had a different plan, and they would live to see another day. Meanwhile, he had a debt to pay.

"Ready to go, Chewie?"

The Wookiee growled the affirmative.


	19. Chapter 19

_Author's note: Started writing this particular fanfic in '02, and I've done a little here and there on it over the years. Recently found a goodly amount of time to peck away on it and bring the story to a conclusion. Hopefully, this has been as much fun for y'all to read as it has been for me to write. Without further ado, here is the final chapter of __Resistance__:_

**Chapter 19**

"How the hell did they show up so fast?" shouted Solo as he yanked the control stick of the _Millennium_ _Falcon, _veering the ship sharply away from three approaching Imperial Star Destroyers. He had barely cleared the atmosphere of Yavin IV, and the Imperials were breathing down his neck. Through the canopy, he spotted several Rebel ships leaving the system Imperial ships in pursuit of them. He and Chewbacca had spent some extra time working on the Falcon to conduct some much-needed maintenance, and so they had been on the ground at least an hour after the departure of the Death Star.

"Han, this is Luke," sounded a voice from the communications suite.

"Hey kid, I'm a little busy right now. Can it wait?"

"Thought you might want to know that an Imperial fleet just dropped out of hyperspace close to the planet."

"No kidding!" retorted Solo, busily scanning his instruments.

Chewbacca roared as one of the panels began to chirp.

"Yeah, yeah, I know! Imperial fighters, and they're gaining on us fast. How close are we to being able to make the jump?" Chewbacca grunted something else. Han's face clouded momentarily, revealing some internal conflict. He cursed loudly, and then jammed toward the communicator.

"Han, this is Luke, I'm going to have to go down and get the Princess."

"She's still there?"

"Yeah, she won't leave until the rest of the staff has evacuated."

Solo looked at his wookiee companion. Chewbacca growled softly.

"Well, who said you gotta live forever?" groused Solo as he swung the Falcon back toward the surface of the moon from which they had so recently departed.

"Hey Luke, I'll get her out on the Falcon. You just keep those fighters off my tail."

"What?"

"Hard of hearing, kid? I need you to keep those fighters busy, got it?"

"Okay, Han."

The heavily modified YT-1300 light freighter streaked toward the planet's surface, as a swarm of TIE fighters closed in for the kill. As they approached within firing range, laser cannon fire from Luke Skywalker's X-Wing fighter and the several fighters with him reduced two of the lead TIE fighters to slag. The remaining TIE fighters adjusted course to meet the newly-identified threat.

-----

Multiple landing craft decended upon clearings within the jungle-covered surface of Yavin IV, a thick fighter screen protecting them from above. As ramps descended, stormtroopers in dark gray and jungle camouflage poured out, fanning out and establishing perimeters.

Some of the troopers in dark gray formed into squad-size elements and maneuvered quickly toward pre-assigned objectives in wedge formation. Some of the troopers carried light mortars in backpacks, while others carried combat engineer breaching equipment and shaped charges.

Scout troopers wearing armor with jungle camouflage unloaded speeder bikes from the landing craft, mounted them, and sped toward their respective over-watch positions. The scouts outdistanced the fast-moving stormtroopers in dark gray camouflage, the whine of their engines dimming in the distance. Dusk was setting in, and the troopers switched over to thermal imaging.

As dusk gave way to darkness, the first transports lifted and were replaced by fewer, but heavier transports. As the ramps were lowered, more stormtroopers in jungle camouflage exited, carrying with them multiple heavy boxes. They opened the boxes, emptying their contents upon the jungle floor.

Within minutes, twelve fixed artillery pieces were set up and registered. Troopers manning the guns received direction from the mobile fire coordination center, and they began launching ordinance, which briefly lit the darkness around them. Deadly rounds arched away from the artillery pieces, finding marks deep within the jungle.

Upon the _Imperial Star Destroyer Punishment_, an Imperial colonel stood next to a table-sized holo-projector, monitoring progress of the battle upon the surface of Yavin IV. Five other officers also monitored the battle but were seated at various terminals, speaking into microphones, sending and receiving reports.

"Sir, Target Two Seven Alpha has been spotted. Strike Team Bravo Six is in position to engage."

"That is a _capture_ target, captain," barked the colonel, "Lord Vader wants that one alive."

"Yes sir."

"Sir, Strike Teams Bravo Three and Charlie One have penetrated the main Rebel base," said an officer seated at a different terminal.

"Resistance encountered?"

"Bypassed and marked, sir."

"Engage with indirect fire."

"Yes sir."

Darth Vader strode into the room, and walked up to the colonel, then turned to glance at the holographic depiction of the ongoing battle.

"Has the Rebel base been breached yet?"

"Yes, my lord. Two strike teams have penetrated and are preparing to engage select targets."

"Good. I will go to my ship. Rebels continue to escape from the moon," boomed Vader. The colonel nodded and returned his attention to the ground battle. Vader strode toward the hangar deck.

"You two, come with me," said Vader as he motioned toward two Imperial TIE pilots. He knew that the Emperor wanted him aboard the Death Star, but the fight against the Rebels was _here_, and so here he had come. This would be a day, long remembered. It had seen the end of Kenobi, and it would soon see the end of the Rebellion.

-----

Greg knew. What was worse, he wasn't so certain he should tell what he knew. That flew in the face of what he had always practiced as a tactical intelligence officer: _Who else needs to know?_ Even so, he felt confused. The attack on Coruscant by the Resistance had been masterfully planned and executed. If they had intended to kill the Emperor though, they had failed.

"Who was in command of that ship?" demanded Palpatine. He sat in the middle of the command center deep underground, flanked by two of his Imperial guardsmen. His escape had been perilously close, but he remained alive. He was certain that by the end of this day a great many more would not be so fortunate. A nervous Imperial general stood before him at the position of attention.

"My lord, we are still attempting to determine the situa…. _akh_!" said the officer who then suddenly clutched at his throat.

"That is not enough. If you cannot perform such a simple task, then I will find someone who can!"

The officer collapsed to his knees, but then gasped loudly, apparently released from whatever had been choking him.

"You have ten minutes of your life left in which to tell me who was in command of that ship."

The officer scrambled to his feet, bowed, and sprinted toward Greg and the officers with him, coughing loudly. General Voss stepped forward to meet the running general.

"Find … find, _cough_, I want the name of that commander, _now_!"

An officer who had his attention glued to a terminal arose and shouted, "Sir, I have the name!" He gave the name to the senior officer who turned to sprint back toward the Emperor. Greg took the name and entered it into another terminal. Using his rank cylinder, he was granted access to the officer's personal records. A cursory examination of the record revealed what he had already suspected. There was nothing in the officer's background to suggest he was capable of or willing to crash a starship into a planet.

"Captain Yost," said Voss quietly.

"Sir, the ship's commander seems to be in the clear."

"What are you thinking?"

Greg hesitated, "Sir, it could have been a malfunction of some sort."

"You know better than that."

"Sir, it might have been Rebel saboteurs aboard who sliced into the ship's systems."

"Those vessels have multiple redundancies and fail-safes. No mere slicing could have facilitated an attack like that."

"I'll keep looking, sir."

Greg saw a red blinking message on his terminal, and he wrinkled his brow. It was a new message from Ms. Elliott, and it was marked as urgent. He opened it.

-----

_Dear Greg,_

_Your uncle was fit to be tied! His team almost lost the game in the fourth quarter, and he was cursing like a sailor. The team pulled it off, though your uncle had some choice words for the coach, much of which I'm too embarrassed to print here. We really hope you can take some leave soon!_

_Love, _

_Ms. Elliott_

_PS – Your uncle included this for you; hope you enjoy hearing it as much as he did recording it!_

-----

Greg spotted the attached file, and he opened it. The file was small, and it downloaded quickly. He leaned forward, so he could hear it through the small speaker on the console.

"We won! Roll Tide!"

Greg felt a sudden sense of vertigo, and then darkness threatened to take him. Confusion momentarily gripped him, and then he felt a sense of absolute revelation and resolution. He knew what he had to do.

-----

The uniform felt wrong on him, but he attempted to ignore the sensation. Keeping an ever-present sneer upon his countenance, Colonel William Dudley strode down the hallway maintaining an appearance of complete arrogance. Flanking him were two Imperial stormtroopers. The damage up ahead was considerable, and confusion still reigned in the area. The crashed ISD had left much destruction and confusion in its wake. Dudley was counting on that. He walked imperiously into an emergency command center. In the center of the room, an Imperial lieutenant colonel feverishly sent and received reports, shouting orders and instructions to other officers manning consoles throughout the room.

"Colonel!" barked Dudley. The officer paused to turn and meet the iron gaze of a man dressed in the uniform of Imperial Intelligence and wearing the rank of a major general.

"Sir, if you do not mind, I am a bit busy working to clean this mess up," he indicated a large monitor depicting catastrophic damage done by the crashed ISD with a broad sweep of his hand.

"That does not concern me, colonel. We have received reports of death squads that infiltrated this facility, and are attempting to assassinate the Emperor."

"What!"

"We will intercept and neutralize them, before they can carry out their mission. I require all access codes in order to expedite mission success."

The lieutenant colonel gave Dudley a slightly dubious look, "I'll have to verify that, sir." He reached for his terminal.

"Colonel, we do not have time for this, and you know as well as I do that our systems have been compromised. As you were; I will find another officer more willing to cooperate. Provide me with your name and service number so that I can hand them over to General Voss once the death squads have killed our Emperor."

The lieutenant colonel paled and swallowed, "Sir, there's no need for that. I will provide the codes. I want nothing to do with preventing your mission."

"I knew we could count on you to be reasonable."

It had been a long time since Dudley had used the Force to influence someone, and he was out of practice. He knew just how close he had come to having to resort to violence here. The last four officers had not offered quite as much resistance.

-----

"We have our orders," announced Tarkin.

The giant space station dropped out of hyperspace and moved slowly toward the heavily guarded singularity, using its massive sublight engines. Seven Imperial Star Destroyers and multiple smaller ships patrolled what was essentially the entrance to the galaxy containing Sol.

"Sir, we have clearance to proceed through the anomaly," said the watch officer.

"You may proceed when ready."

Deep within the Death Star, a stormtrooper clad in white conducted checks during his patrol. He worked with his squad to ensure safe operation of the main reactor. It was a thankless job, but he knew it was necessary. He peered through the transparencies toward the giant reactor powering the massive mobile battle station.

Fluun imagined he could feel waves of energy emanating from the reactor. The amount of power being produced by that monster was unthinkable. Multiple worlds could be powered for many years by what that thing produced for a single hyperspace jump.

He continued his trek down the long corridor ringing the main reactor, and thoughts naturally drifted toward the drink he would be entitled to this evening, along with a friendly game of Sabaac. He had lost too many credits over the last three games, but he intended to make those up.

This was one of the more monotonous jobs for troopers aboard the Death Star, but Fluun knew that even elite troops had to pull dull patrols. He carefully scanned the multiple gauges against the bulkheads to ensure they were within tolerance. He also checked to ensure the doors within the ringed corridor were properly secured. His other troopers were scattered throughout the ring, conducting similar checks.

Fluun spotted another trooper walking toward him, and he checked his internal heads-up display. The man was from a different regiment. That was odd. He was also carrying a plasteel box. The other trooper turned toward one of the doors that would allow access to catwalks for the main reactor.

"Trooper, remain where you are," Fluun shouted. He held his carbine at the low ready. The trooper stopped, turned to face him and said, "Wait."

"What? You are not authorized to be in this area. We got no reports of other units patrolling this sector today. What is in the box?"

The trooper said nothing. He opened the door, set down the box just outside, pulled a switch from inside, and turned to face him. Fluun felt a sudden wash of realization and horror, and he raised his weapon, but he knew it was too late. As he fired into the torso of the trooper, he shouted, "Ah, Sith spit!"

Thermonuclear fire tore apart the ring, and a blast wave smashed into the nearby main reactor. Struck with violent force, the skin of the reactor ruptured, and multiple smaller detonations played around its edge. Nearly simultaneously, another nuclear fireball erupted on the opposite side of the reactor, and a terrific shock wave slammed into the reactor from that side as well. While the battle station was designed to repel attacks from capital ships, the designers had not considered an attack on the main reactor from a point-blank range by primitive nuclear weapons.

-----

Explosions rocked the grounds of the ancient temple, as artillery rained down on dug in Rebel soldiers and fixed positions. Wreckage of two Rebel transports was strewn over the entrance to the jungle nearby, along with the charred remains of Rebel soldiers and officers. Solo ran with Chewbacca, diving for cover whenever they heard the incoming rounds, praying to whatever deities would listen that his ship would remain safe from the deadly rain of explosives. Two Rebel guards met them at the massive doorway to the ancient temple, crouched behind hastily-emplaced barriers made from scrap metal and pieces of stone that had been blown free.

"Halt, or I'll shoot!"

"I'm Captain Han Solo, you idiot! I'm here to pick up the princess."

"I am not authorized to allow…"

The high-pitched whistling of an incoming round sent all three sprawling to the ground. The blast from the explosion picked up Solo and hurled him against a nearby wall. That should have killed or grievously injured him, but Chewbacca had him in a bear hug and took most of the brunt. The Rebel soldier wasn't so lucky. Solo saw that the man was still, either knocked out or dead. He shook his head to free up the cobwebs and looked up toward his friend. Chewy looked no worse for wear. Both bolted through the doorway.

"Your highness, we're leaving!"

Leia looked up from a map table and yelled, "What are _you_ still doing here? You have your permission to leave!"

"Not without you, your worship!" shouted Solo as he reached for the princess.

As she was being pulled out of the room, she turned to the Rebel watch officer and said, "Send the evacuation code, and get the rest of your men to the transports."

In the space just above Yavin IV, Luke Skywalker was in a tough dogfight, but the craft against which he was locked in battle was not the usual TIE fighter. This one appeared to be a bit larger, had panels that were bent inward on the top and bottom, and the pilot was good … _really_ good. Every time he thought he might get the enemy ship into his sights, it would juke out and work to return the favor. Too many scorch marks around Luke's ship attested to just how good that pilot was. One wingman remained with the strangely-shaped TIE fighter, while the other had met his end several minutes before. Most of the other X-Wing fighters were engaged in combat elsewhere.

"Luke!"

"Huh?" said Luke. That had not come from the intercom within his helmet.

"Luke!"

"Ben?"

"You must go to the Dagobah System. Make haste!"

"Dagobah?"

"You must lose no time! Go!"

Luke spun his ship toward the gas giant and gunned his engines. The strange fighter followed quickly. Luke entered his destination into the navi-computer while moving his ship around to keep his enemy from acquiring a firing solution. It would take a few moments before the computer was able to make the calculations for a hyperspace jump.

"Stay on him!" growled Vader. The Force was strong in this one, but he would not remain alive for long. His quarry was clearly attempting to escape. Vader reached out through the Force to get a feel for where the enemy ship would be next, but it was tough for this particular target. He worked the dials on his stick and watched as the image of the enemy ship danced within his targeting monitor. Finally, it locked.

"I have you now."

An explosion to the left of Vader's ship jerked him off of his target.

"What!"

The Millennium Falcon shot through what remained of the TIE fighter wingman of Vader, and he sent two concussion missiles toward the strange looking TIE fighter. They detonated just to the right, and the fighter took some damage, spinning away.

"You're clear, kid. Now let's get the hell out of here!" shouted Solo into his microphone. He wasn't sure where Luke was going, but anywhere was better than here.

"I'm sending you some coordinates, Han. Follow me to Dagobah."

"Where?"

"Don't ask, old buddy, but I need you with me!"

"Ok, kid, sure thing."

-----

"That pathetic planet will no longer be of concern to us," grated Palpatine to the officer. The officer had just informed him that extremists from Sol had been responsible for the terrorist act on Imperial Center.

"I have dispatched the ultimate weapon to that world to end strife upon its wretched surface, permanently."

On the other side of the command center, a young officer signaled to General Voss. Voss walked over to him, and the younger officer motioned him still closer.

"Sir, we have no communications outside of this room."

"What do you mean?"

"Sir, someone, or something has cut us off."

"That's impossible. The access codes … I see."

The senior officer sidled up to Voss and said softly, "The Emperor wants updates on the assault on the Rebel base, as well as progress of the Death Star."

Voss stared blankly at his superior and then told him of what he had just himself learned. The already pale senior officer lost what little color he had retained.

"Sir, will you inform the Emperor of our situation?"

The lieutenant general rubbed his throat nervously and said, "No. I think that might be unwise. I will tell him that all goes according to plan."

He walked up toward the Emperor confidently and said, "My lord, the Rebel base has been defeated, and the Death Star is en route to the planet of Sol as we speak."

"You lie, commander, and you have done so for the last time."

The Emperor stood, and Force lightning lanced out from the Emperor's hands as he stepped forward from his two guards. The officer writhed on the floor in agony. Another blinding blast of Force lightning ended any further movement.

"General Voss, _you_ are now in command. Gain a status report and then see me."

"Yes, my lord."

The Emperor turned around, just in time for one of the two Imperial guards to knock him to the floor with a force pike.

"Kill the guards," screamed the Emperor as he lay sprawled on the floor, one hand in the air in a defensive posture, "They are _traitors_!"

The Emperor had not felt the attack sooner, for these natives of Sol repelled the Force and he could not sense them. He reached into his cloak and pulled forth a light saber. Igniting it, he severed the foot of the guard, who roared in pain, reeling backwards.

"Did you really think you could dispatch me so readily? Your lack of vision will lead only to your death!"

A blaster bolt slammed into the now single-footed guard, sending him backwards into the Emperor's chair. The second guard raised his force pike to impale the Emperor, but a blaster bolt ended his motion. Stormtroopers within the room opened fire on the guard as he fell backward, and he collapsed into a red heap.

Greg, who had fired the initial blasts reached out with his left hand for the Emperor. The Emperor had extinguished his light saber and moved to take his hand. Greg then raised his blaster with his other hand and aimed center-mass, squeezing off two shots in quick succession. Two smoking holes appeared in the torso of a shocked Palpatine, as he mouthed the word, "treason." Greg had little time to appreciate what he had accomplished, as multiple blaster bolts slammed into him from different directions.

-----

"My lord, we have detained several Rebel leaders," said the colonel.

"Is the princess among them?"

"No, my lord."

"How did she escape?"

"We spotted a small freighter ... the same one that recently escaped the Death Star. She may have been aboard."

Vader spun to face the ship's commander, "Calculate all known tragectories from this location, and send ships to find them."

"Yes, my lord."

A communications officer approached the captain and said something into his ear, beneath Vader's hearing. The captain appeared taken aback.

"Are you certain? You had better check again."

"What is is, captain?" demanded Vader.

The captain swallowed, "We are confirming a report we just received. I want to ensure it is accurate prior to telling you more, my lord."

-----

The team was nearly complete. One of the stormtroopers in dark gray turned to face a man wearing Imperial gray.

"We are almost through, sir."

"Ensure that once you get through, there are no survivors."

"Yes sir."

The man wearing the uniform of an Imperial general officer stood and walked away. As he left, he saw at least two dozen more stormtoopers in dark gray lined up at the entrance and others would soon join them. This was dirty work, but it was necessary. Colonel Dudley had been involved in some questionable acts in his time, but this was the most questionable. He told himself it was for the good of Earth, and for the galaxy as a whole. For it to have a chance of working, there could be no witnesses. He had something else of critical importance to check.

Once clear of the wreckage, Colonel Dudley made his way to a room that served as a medical facility. Upon one of the beds and surrounded by Imperial guards, the deformed visage of a gnarled man met him. He was wearing a robe.

"My lord, it is good to see that you are safe," exclaimed Colonel.

"I am better than ever, and rest assured that this day has been one of victory for the Empire."

"Yes, my lord."

"The insignificant rebellion has been utterly crushed, and all others who oppose the might of the Empire will feel my wrath."

"Indeed, my lord."

-----

Aboard the _ISD Punishment_, the captain approached Lord Vader, two stormtroopers in white flanking him.

"Lord Vader," began a clearly rattled captain, "The Emperor has survived an assassination attempt."

Vader reached out through the Force. The ever-present power of his master was gone.

"No, he did not."

"Lord Vader, the Emperor has issued orders for your arrest. You are to accompany us to Imperial Center in order to stand trial for involvement in an assassination plot against the his highness."

Vader lashed out through the Force, throwing back the captain and his accompanying stormtroopers to the floor.

"The Emperor _was_ assassinated, but it was not _my_ doing. The Emperor did not issue orders for my arrest, for he is no longer alive. We will uncover this plot and hold those who are responsible accountable for their crime," growled Vader. More stormtroopers entered the room, and Vader used the Force to seal the doors.

"Lord Vader," said the captain as he regained his footing, "we can discuss this once we get to Imperial Center. My orders are clear, and I have verified them. I am certain that the Emperor…"

"The Emperor is dead, so whoever is issuing orders in his name is a traitor!" roared Vader. At the signal of the captain, several stormtroopers approached Vader. He then ignited his light saber.

"If you are not for me, then you are my enemy!"

As stormtroopers fired, Vader parried the bolts with his saber and cut them down. Outside the room, troopers clad in dark gray prepared to breach the door.

-----

Three days later, the oldest of the Jedi stepped forth and sniffed the air.

"Over, is my long exile."

Luke Skywalker stood next to Yoda, hardly believing he was on Coruscant itself. He looked very much the farm boy from a far-off world. Leia stood to the other side of Yoda. Not so long ago, she had been a member of the Imperial Senate.

"I understand that the Senate is being reinstated," said Leia with some wonder.

"That is correct, your highness," said a new, approaching voice. A man wearing Imperial gray and the rank of a major general stood before them. He added, "You are Princess Leia Organa. I am sorry about Alderaan, but I would like to welcome you to Coruscant."

"Don't you mean Imperial Center, general," replied Leia with a tinge of bitterness. The general winked, "The Emperor has had a slight change of plan, and he sees now the necessity for the Imperial Senate." Leia gave him a dubious look.

Yoda said, "General, alone with you I would meet."

"Certainly."

Aboard the Falcon, the Imperial officer and Yoda sat alone.

"Your true identity you cannot hide from me."

"Indeed. I am actually a colonel in what was the United States Army, master jedi. My name is William Dudley"

"This already I knew, but more there is. But speak of that we will later. How long do you think you can keep secret, your fake Emperor?" Dudley frowned slightly.

"Perhaps it may be long enough to accomplish what we have in mind."

"Vader, the Emperor's apprentice; fooled he will not so easily be."

"I imagine not, but we took some measures to mitigate such a risk."

"Enough will they be?"

"We hope so, though we have received no reports either way."

"Your fake Emperor, a vote will he have in this play of yours."

"Moheb is a good man." Dudley recalled the surgical procedure that had altered the Syrian's appearance. He took on his modified role readily enough - almost too readily.

"Sense him, I cannot. Closely watch him, you must."

A beeping sound came from Dudley's pocket, and seemed to recall something. He stood to leave.

"I will take my leave, master Jedi. There is much to do today. It has been a pleasure to speak with you." He bowed and turned to leave the ship.

"A long time has it been, Bel Shadar." Dudley's back stiffened, but then he relaxed.

He turned his head slightly toward his old master, "That name no longer has meaning for me, Master Yoda."

"What name would you have me use?"

"As I told you, my name is William Dudley, though others know me as _Lancer Six_."


End file.
